


don't forget to add salt

by maderilien



Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Eventual Relationships, F/F, Fluff and Humor, Gen, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Multiple, Self-Indulgent, Slice of Life, as technical about restaurants as star wars is about astrophysics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:55:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26771023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maderilien/pseuds/maderilien
Summary: Chef Amidala and Chef Palpatine are on good terms—some would even call them friends. He was her mentor at the Culinary Academy of Naboo, after all. Her little diner couldn't possibly pose any threat to The Senate, now, could it?—An anthology of silly adventures featuring the staff of a diner, that of a high-end five star restaurant, and their customers.
Relationships: Darth Maul & Savage Opress, Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker, Padmé Amidala & Anakin Skywalker, Padmé Amidala/Asajj Ventress
Comments: 46
Kudos: 45





	1. Dooku & the Promotional Muffin Sale

**Author's Note:**

> This rival restaurants AU idea popped into my head sometime ago and I ended up hashing out a handful of silly scenarios for my trio's entertainment (ILY my gal pals!) I had a ton of fun writing these and I hope they may bring a bit of sunshine to someone else's day too. ♥
> 
> The first half is silly, light-hearted stuff introducing the setting and characters, and at some point after that, I'll be exploring a few relationships, namely Ventress/Padmé, Anakin/Obi-Wan and Barriss/Ahsoka. I'll adjust the tags as I update.
> 
> Enjoy!

It’s a fine morning on Coruscant and Count Dooku has an appointment with the Dagobah Club at nine. 

It should be fall, if the calendars have anything to say about it, but the trees outside show no sign of change yet. Their leaves rustle gently overhead; the breeze is light, if a bit cold, but he doesn’t mind it at all. The Count has a slight spring to his step as he walks down the alley. His two long boys are trotting ahead of him, sharing in on his infectious mood. Their light brown fur gleams healthily in the sun, a result of years of care and love he has invested into them.

"Roger, Roger—" he looks to each in turn "—behave." 

He gives their leashes a little tug, to remind them they must be civilized, but the two borzoi keep pulling on ahead, curious about this and that bush. Dooku resigns himself to it and follows them instead of trying to further direct their trajectory. It's better that they are in a good mood—hopefully the Dagobah Club has something pleasant prepared for them.

All things considered, it's a very pleasant start of the day.

That is, until they meet _him._

"Oh, mister! You look like you could use a chocolatey treat!"

The Count closes his eyes. He breathes in and out slowly and mentally prepares himself for the confrontation. Usually, strangers don’t accost him on the street so easily—his long, black coat does a great job of intimidating everybody on the street.

He turns to the person, ready to refuse.

"We have the best muffins in the area.”

"I'm…"

The young man is tall. He looks like he has a bit of muscle on him, and by the way he's advertising his muffins, it seems he's aware of his fortunate genes all too well. The logo on his green apron catches Dooku’s eye: a dark rock and a stream of water falling down from its top in a graceful arch. On the clouds of foam the water creates at the bottom lies written, simply, ‘Angel Falls.’ 

The name of the diner makes Dooku pause.

"... Mildly interested," he finishes, squinting at the employee with suspicion. There is a name tag tied to the man’s breast, saying ‘Anakin.’ "Is this place pet friendly?"

Roger and Roger are unfortunately not very bright dogs and need someone to keep an eye on them in public.

"Not quite, but our security guard will surely appreciate the company!" The young man smiles at the two dogs, but doesn't dare pet them.

Dooku gives him another once-over, as subtle as he can.

This must be Anakin Skywalker, then.

They walk further down the street toward the diner. It doesn’t take long for _Angel Falls_ to come into view and Count Dooku realizes he’s passed by this area many times before. It's bracketed by two shops, one selling glassware, and the other lamps and other lighting devices. On both sides of the entrance to Angel Falls there are two large windows covered in minimalist doodles: vegetables, fruit, seafood and meat all decorate the glass in two rows, one at the top, the other lining the sill. Through the window, Dooku sees a couple of tables, mostly full, and the counter set up on the left side.

"We're raising money for a local charity," Anakin tells him. "All muffin proceedings will go to _the Brightest Stars—_ perhaps you have heard of it?"

"Vaguely," Dooku says.

"It helps impoverished children access proper education."

The employee opens the door and yells the name 'Rex.' Moments later, a buff man donned in a dark blue uniform exits the diner. He glances at Dooku in passing, before giving Skywalker his undivided attention.

"Yes, sir?"

"Can you keep an eye on these two good boys while the gentleman peruses our wares?"

"Of course, sir." 

Dooku reluctantly hands him the leashes and follows the employee into the diner.

One step inside is all that the Count needs to understand three very important facts: 

> one, Angel Falls already feels like home with its warm lights and the tasty smell of freshly baked goods lingering in the air;

> two, the place is packed with patrons of all ages, lively without being overbearing, and has an atmosphere that could easily rival that of The Senate, which leads him to the final point—

> three, his good friend Sheev Palpatine has serious reasons to be concerned with the little diner after all.

Count Dooku eyes Anakin Skywalker critically. So the highly sought-after chef is quite laid-back and a tad ignorant, if he hasn’t realized who the Count is yet. What was he even doing on the street like that? Are they short-staffed?

As Dooku analyzes him, the man leads him to one of the few free tables. It's a small one, fit for two people at most, tucked away near the entrance to the bathrooms. 

It's a terrible spot to place a food critic.

Count Dooku stops himself from sighing just in time.

 _This_ is the chef Palpatine wants?

"Today we have two special flavours available: dark chocolate with forest fruit and lavender spice mixed with white chocolate ganache. Which one would you like to try?"

"Both, if you will," Dooku responds after a moment's pause. He's not here on official business, after all. He can be a little self-indulgent. At best, he might even understand how big of a threat Angel Falls really is for Palpatine.

"Perfect! Coming right up, sir!"

A togruta teenager soon replaces Skywalker at his table. She sets down a little menu and smiles politely at him.

"If you would like a drink, please feel free to look through our menu."

"A glass of water," he says automatically. "Thank you."

That's how count Dooku ends up losing track of time at Angel Falls. 

Why? 

Because the moment he has the first bite of the forest fruit muffin, he is so enchanted by the balanced taste that, as he is eating it, he forgets where he is, what appointments he has, and even that he’s supposed to be scouting the place a little. The next pastry is somehow even more satisfying. His taste buds cry out in joy and ecstasy when the spice sauce mixes with the muffin base in his mouth. A tad fiery, tempered by the solid dough baked to perfection—count Dooku has not tasted such a happy blend even at The Senate.

He sees Anakin Skywalker move about the diner, bringing a plate of muffins to another table. There's a carefree smile on his face and it's easy to see why, after all.

Anybody would be excited to serve such goodies.

Count Dooku sighs heavily. It's going to be tough bringing this man on Palpatine's team, if the joy he radiates at working here is any sign. The composed sobriety of the Senate and its high society clientele don't really seem to be Skywalker’s scene, but who knows? Dooku has seen greater people fall prey to greed. It will be most entertaining to spectate his friend’s attempts at cornering _this_ young man.

He catches the waitress' attention with his hand.

"I would like a box, to-go," he says. "Five and five."

She beams. "Certainly, sir! I will prepare it right away!"

He's about to change the lives of his Dagobah Club members. This seems exactly the sort of posh treat that Master Yoda would appreciate, with the added bonus that it comes from a small, local business.

"Count Dooku!"

He turns to the side, where a woman decked out in a chef jacket and a white chef hat is staring blankly at him. Her name tag reads ‘Padmé.’

This must be Manager Amidala, then.

"I apologize, I seem to have overlooked your appointment!" She is turning an alarming shade of red, but her voice doesn't waver as much as the blush betrays her.

"No need for apologies, Manager. I had none," Count Dooku offers, maintaining a casual note.

Her tense shoulders relax a fraction.

"It has been a most pleasant experience," he goes on.

"I'm… I'm glad to hear that."

The waitress chooses this moment to return with his extra order. She places the bag on the table, then hands him a little electronic device. One card swipe later, he is the proud possessor of ten heavenly muffins and he is _impatient_ to reach the Dagobah Club and share them.

"Thank you," he tells them both. "Now you must excuse me, I have further engagements waiting for me."

"Thank _you,_ sir!" says the waitress.

Manager Amidala is still shaken, but she remembers herself and walks him to the exit. She's short and slim, easy to overlook physically, but her presence is quite strong and confident. If she can put herself together in the face of a critic so quickly, then Count Dooku is almost afraid of what she would be like when she is already prepared for it.

"We look forward to your patronage, Count," she says.

He takes Roger and Roger back from the security guard and continues his walk toward the Dagobah Club. He has to quicken his pace now that he's spent all this time occupied eating muffins, but he finds he doesn't mind it all that much.

What's for certain is that The Senate should be watching its back.

  
  


* * *

**Extra:**

"Ani, did you bring that gentleman in?" 

Seeing Anakin's confused expression, Padmé gestures with a hand far above her head.

"Tall, dark suit, _far above our paycheck?"_

"Ah, _that_ gentleman! Yeah!" he grins, pleased with himself. "Ahsoka said he bought some extra. That's a lot of credits going to a local orphan near you!"

"Anakin!" Her voice takes on a scolding air, to which her right hand chef responds by cowering and giving her his best kicked puppy eyes. "That was Count Dooku! You know… the number one food critic of Coruscant?"

Finally, he seems to realize the scope of his act and his eyes widen.

Padmé sighs and shakes her head. "Yeah, exactly. You were very lucky this time."

"Lucky?" He laughs. "It ended quite well!”

“Be careful you don’t overestimate yourself,” she says.

“I trust my baking skills only because you taught me, Padmé. If anything, it shows how good a teacher you are."

She punches him lightly in the shoulder, flustered by the compliment. "You flatter me, but I'm billing you if all this stress gets to me."

Anakin shrugs very, _very_ innocently.


	2. Ahsoka & the Mystery Date of Padmé Amidala

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Padmé is pretty ~(￣▽￣)~*

Ahsoka likes waking up early enough so that she can enjoy her breakfast in peace every day. 

After tinkering with her college timetable, she has managed to fit her duties there and those at her part-time job at Angel Falls like two pieces from the same puzzle. Some days she's got the morning shift, others the afternoon one, and on the rare occasion she has to work evenings, it is always more fun when she finds Mister Rex sharing her shift. 

Sure, she's tired every day, but she finally has her own money and the people at the diner are pretty cool, so everything slots into place in the end.

(There's also the fact a lot of patrons choose to-go, thankfully.)

Today, unfortunately, Rex is nowhere to be seen. A cooler (in the other sense of the word), pretty aloof guy is guarding the door instead. Everyone calls him Dogma and with good reason—he's always ready to quote the rulebook and intervene in any small disturbance with more passion than it calls for. His intentions are good, there is no doubt about that, but his people skills are mildly lacking.

Still, she greets him with a small, polite smile. Her dad has taught her too well for her to forgo such small acts of respect.

"Hey, Ahsoka!"

And _there's_ her second most favourite person from Angel Falls after Mister Rex. 

Lux Bonteri, full time waiter, is already in his uniform and waving at her from the back of the diner. He lets her pass through to the changing room and makes small talk through the door while he fixes his bowtie.

"Miss Amidala said there's no reservations for the evening. I can keep track of the register."

"Is your leg bothering you again?" she asks, words partly muffled by the clothes she's changing in and out of.

"A bit."

"Alright, I'll handle the tables."

"Thanks!"

The afternoon eases into evening like a spoonful of honey left to pour into a tea cup. The humidity went down in the last few days, but there is still some leftover heat from summertime that hints it is not entirely gone yet. The diner's entrance faces East, so they have to turn on the overhead lamps pretty early. There is red still staining the sky when Ahsoka powers them on.

Another four hours to go and then her extended four-day weekend can start.

Fortunately for the both of them, there are only three people in need of proper dinner today. Ahsoka takes their orders easily and brings them to Chef Cody with a genuine smile—the poor man had been moping around, hoping for an order for an hour now.

"I was afraid it was going to be another one of these days, you know," Chef Cody waves his hands around. "Can't-have-a-sip-of-water type of busy. Instead, I’m on my third crossword puzzle."

"You work too much, Mister Cody! You deserve a break." 

"Hey, I'm the only one on duty today.”

Ahsoka shrugs. As she returns to the main chamber, she thinks quite sourly, _Skyguy shouldn't have taken today off too._

Whatever could be more important than helping out his friends here, anyway?

She grimaces.

So much praise for Skywalker’s skills—perhaps it has all finally got to his head and he'll leave them all to work somewhere pretentious for five digits a month.

"You ok? You look like a wet cat," Lux comments from the counter.

Ahsoka makes a conscious effort to relax her facial muscles. Just thinking about Skywalker is enough to annoy her. She's only been here for a month, but she’s seen the chef around, making jokes, taking risks as if he’s not wholly serious about his job. Granted, he hasn’t messed up yet, but it must be blind luck keeping him in its favour for a while longer. 

"I'm fine," she mumbles, joining him. 

An electronic spreadsheet is open on the screen, showing their sales for the month. Lux is hard at work fiddling with the numbers, something that decidedly does not fall within his job description. She throws him a careful side look, thinking she's sneaky enough, but he smirks and breathes out a huff in lieu of laughter.

"Miss Amidala gave me permission," he reminds her. "It's alright."

"I know that, but there's so many numbers…"

It's Lux' turn to glance at her. "You work with numbers too and they make just as little sense to me."

"Oh, man, I didn't think I'd be studying so much math!” Ahsoka exclaims, full of pathos. “I just want to build stuff, Lux. Hover bikes! Ships! Ohh, imagine…" She leans back and spreads her hands wide in front of her, as if she is framing a photograph. "Tano-Koon Aeromechanics: We can fix _anything."_

Lux laughs lightly. At the same time, the door opens, sending the wind bells into a flurry of crystalline sounds.

The two waiters shut up at once.

A tall, handsome man dressed in Very Fine Clothes is holding the door open for a lady. The lady is—

Ahsoka and Lux exchange a mutually surprised look.

—Manager Amidala, herself dressed in an elegant purple dress. A handful of sequins glitter at the hem of her bodice, arching over her chest in a tasteful manner. She looks more suited for the opera than for this little diner.

"Good evening, Miss," says Lux. 

He's recovered faster than Ahsoka, who is still gaping at the unexpected display of beauty. A swift elbow to the side breaks Ahsoka's enchantment as well, though does nothing to hide her intense blush.

(Padmé Amidala is a beautiful person, period.)

"Good evening, Lux, Ahsoka. Don't mind us," she says.

She places a hand on the man's forearm and guides him past the tables, toward her office.

"On second thought," she stops by her door and looks back toward them. "Bring us a plateau and some wine. I'll let Chef Cody surprise us."

"Right away, Miss," Ahsoka squeaks.

Once the two are in the office and the door closes, Lux and Ahsoka breathe out in relief.

'Date?' Lux mouths at her, very conspicuously gesturing to Padmé's office with his thumb.

Ahsoka shrugs. She goes to the kitchen window and signals the chef. The order she placed before is close to being done, so she lingers and listens to Chef Cody while he finishes up the plating.

"With a handsome man, you say? Does he have a beard?" he asks.

"Yeah! Dark hair and very neatly trimmed."

"That must be Chef Organa from The Senate. They're good friends," Chef Cody says.

 _Chef Organa_ from The Senate? Ahsoka's mind is reeling. It must be the Bail Organa her father mentioned on occasion, though it’s hard to imagine such a member of high society in their little corner of Coruscant.

Sometimes she forgets how close the two restaurants are geographically—if in no other way.

"I know just the thing to make for them. Here, this order's ready."

Less than half an hour later, Ahsoka's pager beeps, alerting her of another completed dish. She takes the tray from the Chef and makes her way to Padmé's office with small steps. She's brass, she's loud, she's a hurricane, yet now she advances stealthily, almost. Both propriety and her own sense of embarrassment hold her back; thinking about Padmé brings back the brief time the manager spent crossing the diner dressed so fashionably and Ahsoka is _not_ functional in the presence of gorgeous ladies.

She's blushing by the door already and she hasn't even knocked, for goodness' sake!

She focuses on the weight of the tray in her hands. It's solid, cold, and the lid covering the dish lets no hint of the smell outside. She's curious about it.

Yes, she can think about the dish instead.

A bit more emotionally balanced, she fights past her nerves and finally knocks.

"Enter!" Padmé says lightly. Her words flow as if trailing on the end of a laugh.

Ahsoka opens the door with her elbow. More chuckles greet her from the office; the man is leaning back on the comfy armchair Padmé keeps by her desk, except it's been moved closer to her swivelling chair, where she sits casually. A tiny device is playing music on the bookshelf. The orchestral melody is subtle in the background and only becomes noticeable when the two adults stop their conversation and look at her expectantly.

"Chef Cody sends his regards," Ahsoka says as she places the tray on the desk and starts unloading it. Her movement is professional, as she's been taught the past weeks, but it is of no doubt to any of them that her hands are visibly shaking.

“Thank you.” Padmé takes the bottle of wine and inspects it briefly. It must be up to her standards, because she smiles and turns to look at Ahsoka a few seconds later. “Say, do you know Chef Organa?"

"I know _of_ him," Ahsoka replies quietly. She gives the man in question a respectful nod, but doesn't dare talk further.

"Ah, your reputation keeps preceding you, old friend!" Padmé chuckles.

Chef Organa seems bashful to receive such a compliment. The moment Ahsoka notices this, some of her jitters fade away. They exchange a proper handshake, firm and not too long—perfectly by the book.

"Ahsoka Tano-Koon," she presents herself.

"Bail Organa. Padmé here tells me you take an interest in Aeromechanics?"

Once again avoiding direct eye contact (but for a whole different reason), Ahsoka gives a little nod.

"Impressive! Careful, Padmé," he turns to the manager momentarily with a teasing smile, "you're turning your diner into a mechanics' getaway!"

Padmé seems delighted by his comment, though the little inside joke is lost on Ahsoka. She smiles, if a tad strained, and tries to not eye the door too obviously.

"I'm glad to have made your acquaintance, miss. You have a great entourage here!" Bail Organa tells her quite sincerely.

Ahsoka knows she lucked out. She looks at him with her eyebrows set in determination and nods once.

"I am honored to be here, sir."

"We shan't be keeping you any longer," Padmé says. "Thank you for your service. Put this on my tab, please."

"Understood, miss! Enjoy your evening!"

With that, Ahsoka swiftly makes her way to the front of the diner. A great weight lifts off of her shoulders, but a question makes its presence known once she is farther away from the office.

Could there be something going on here that she's not wholly aware of yet?

* * *

**Extra:**

"What a sweet girl! I didn't know Master Plo had a family," Bail comments upon Ahsoka's departure.

"She's adopted. If you'd have stuck around our old haunts more, you'd have heard it from the Master himself," Padmé says. "Though I haven't seen him in a year, I think."

Bail Organa sighs very defeatedly. "You know my job is—"

Padmé cuts in swiftly and doesn't let him finish. "Your manager's demanding too much of you all! Do you even have time to breathe?"

"..."

"That's what I thought. Quality at the staff's expense is no genuine quality."

"We work in very different places, Padmé. Your diner can be run by a single chef if the worst came to be."

"I know, I know," and she _does—_ hell, Angel Falls is being run by Cody alone right now! 

Is that an excuse, though? Is quality of life not important to employees everywhere?

Her old friend lets out another heavy exhale. She looks up at him and finds him smiling through a rather despondent expression.

"I admit, I'm spreading myself quite thin… Thank you for this outing, Padmé."

"Anytime, Bail. Anytime."

There's something brewing on the horizon and Padmé isn't completely sure how to prepare herself for it. Count Dooku's recent visit was merely the beginning.


	3. Maul & the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning: slight medical stuff, non-graphic mention of anaphylactic shock / allergic reactions
> 
> also Maul is a grouch

His brother Savage says some days you know to be bad from the start. His  _ other _ brother, Feral, agrees some mornings may be tough, but firmly believes any day can be turned around if you stay optimistic about it. Maul? Well, he knows a terrible day right from its eve.

It's about half past eleven at night and he's got spikes in his throat. Swallowing water is uncomfortable, but that's not the real downer. No—what's really brought the storm around this time is his migraine making an appearance smack in the middle of the week, when he has to go to work at seven the next day, and when he knows everything will be extremely irritating at The Senate.

He broods by the bathroom sink, watching his reflection without really seeing it. These headaches have been popping up a lot more frequently in the last couple of months than he was used to before, and he's even had to refill his bottle of painkillers a second time.

(Let's say Head Chef Maul of The Senate has been having a bad season overall.)

Eventually, he falls asleep. Only when he is wholly unconscious does his face finally relax and his frown vanish—but not entirely. A hint of discomfort clings to him all throughout the night, accompanied by a restless sleep and a bad mood when he wakes.

At The Senate, Maul heads directly to his little private office. He’s wearing a medical mask in case he’s actually coming down with a cold on top of it all, so only his eyes are visible as he glares at everyone. The staff parts wordlessly from his way, far too well acquainted with his temper by now to dare talk to him. 

"Good morning!" 

All of them know better, except one.

"..." Maul needs not even show his face for his brother to pick up on the particulars of his problem.

"I'll take over the kitchen, then," says Deputy Chef Savage. "Do you need anything?"

"No disturbances," Maul grits out through clenched teeth.

"Roger-roger!"

With that, Maul finally shuts the door of his office behind him. The room feels more like a cluttered cupboard right now, but it is blessedly silent. The restaurant noises are kept away quite well by the insulation—enough that he can tune them out even at his worst.

He looks over his schedule for the day and sets to work. The first task he tackles is also one of the more time consuming ones, as he must replenish some of their food stocks and the bidders are many to inspect. He's been working here for over ten years, though, and the motions come easily to him despite the throbbing pain at his temple.

Around lunch, he thinks Feral might be right this time around. Not all bad mornings are bad  _ days… _

As soon as he thinks this, there is frantic knocking at his door.

"Head Chef!"

"Someone better be dying!" he threatens.

"They almost did!" the waiter cries, distraught. "The ambulance is here."

Maul jumps out of his chair so quickly that his vision blackens and his migraine slams down on his poor skull like a sledgehammer.

_ "What?!" _

He walks past the waiter, toward the main hall of The Senate. The commotion there is hard to miss. Among the distressed patrons and staff, there is a handful of people in bright orange outfits forming a wall around someone on the floor.

"An allergic reaction to nuts, sir. Miss Sing gave them adrenaline and the paramed—"

Maul ploughs through the small crowd heavily. By the time he gets near the customer, the person is being loaded onto a carrier and taken to the vehicle.

One paramedic stays behind for a few words:

"Excellent reaction time from your bartender," she says, nodding toward Aurra Sing, who is lingering close by. "She just saved this poor man's life. We'll take it from here. I expect a good recovery."

Then she joins her colleagues and they drive away, sirens blaring.

The crowd is whispering incessantly around him, but these are customers. He mustn't open his mouth, not right now, even if the stress building on his shoulders feels like it's reaching his throat and tightening around it.

"Everyone, calm down! Crisis averted!" Aurra Sing announces loudly. She's a no-nonsense type of person and has no qualms about being upfront with the clientele, something which isn't always ideal, but right now Maul is thankful for it.

He returns to his office in a daze. Honestly, he isn't sure how he even reaches his desk—only that he blinks and goes from standing in the hall, menacingly, to sitting in the blessed silence of his quarters (still menacingly.)

The whole ordeal must have taken five minutes at most, yet he feels like he got doused in a full day's worth of exhaustion. He slumps heavily on his chair, leans on the plush at his back bonelessly. He'll have to handle more papers now, check up on the customer, and send them a gift basket—The Senate doesn't hesitate to support its patrons with the help of a bottle of wine and an assortment of expensive pralines. In short, his duties for the day have doubled.

Maul closes his eyes. He takes another dose of medicine, grabs a fresh face mask and returns to work.

Around half past five, he's finally built enough of an appetite to eat something. If Savage would see the way he's barely picking at his food, he'd never hear the end of it, so Maul makes sure to take the tray back to his office. If it takes him an hour to eat a ten minute snack, then so be it.

He's chewing on a mouthful of pickled eggs when he sees it: a piece of colorful paper peeks out from underneath the plate. He pulls it out with two fingers—it's a whole flyer that somebody slipped between the plate and the tray before they handed it to him.

He flips it over. The cover page is a picture of an old building, caught at an angle to showcase it's sturdy foundation and embellish its height. In rather fancy white lettering, it says  _ The Dagobah Club. _

Maul's eyebrows rise.

He swallows, brushes his hands on a handkerchief, and focuses on the flyer. There's a collection of pictures inside showing all sorts of patrons enjoying themselves at the Club. There's a human making a ceramic bowl or a vase, a twi'lek crafting something with fabrics and ribbons, a diverse group painting on easels—

Maul crumples it in his hand. Anger floods him by reflex. He doesn't need to read the description. 

This smells of Savage's bullshit idea from a mile away.

"You need to find a hobby, dear brother!" is what Savage is endlessly pestering him with.

Maul has had enough of that.

He throws the piece of paper all the way across the room. He isn't hungry anymore either. With brusque, forceful movements, he takes the dishes in his hands and beelines for the kitchens.

"Savage!" Maul bellows from the kitchen entrance.

The Sous Chef Riyo Chuchi jumps in fright at his sudden appearance and makes herself scarce.

The rest of the kitchen is shrouded in awkward silence, with only the sizzling and bubbling of the food being prepared being the source of any sounds.

"Yes?" Savage replies airily.

"Stop tormenting me with your terrible tastes!"

"Wh…" Realization dawns on Savage's face a few seconds later. "No! I forgot to take that out…" he cries in regret.

"If you continue, I will make a fire out of all these useless flyers and roast you slowly over it until you're an unrecognisable slab of meat."

Savage is looking at him with a smile on his face. Everyone else is tense and inconspicuously slumped over their respective work spaces.

"Would that make you feel better?" his brother asks with such candor that Maul takes a step back in surprise. 

"Back to work!" Maul snarls.

There's a small gasp from a nearby sink, shortly followed by a crash. The sound of crystal shattering is as booming as thunder. It's brief, but striking, and it leaves a grave silence behind. 

Maul, who had almost turned to leave, rotates back on his feet toward the sink. It's to his right, close enough that he could even count the shards of the broken glasses on the floor. Next to them, visibly shivering, stands a young woman with green skin.

He doesn't get to speak one word before she starts apologizing.

"Forgive me, sir, Head Chef! It was an accident!" Her voice starts to wobble as more words pour out. "I will work extra shifts and make it up to you!"

"Name?"

She stutters, mumbles something unintelligible.

_ "Name?" _ Maul insists, leaning toward her just a fraction—enough that her eyes fill with tears.

"O-Offee," she says.

"Miss Of-fee," Maul begins, enunciating each syllable with disdain, "you are an employee of The Senate. Surely you must know how our penalties work."

He stands tall and brings his hands to the small of his back.

"I know, sir, but I  _ beg _ you—" She dares keep up her side?! "—I need the money for bills. I swear I will work overtime! Please don't cut my salary!"

Maul shakes his head. "This is how things work here, girl. If you can't keep up, perhaps you should find work elsewhere. There are plenty of young students eager to offer us their service."

She falls silent.

"It's a one time reduction, anyway. No more accidents next month unless you want it to become permanent!"

"Understood, sir."

With that settled, Maul storms out of the kitchen. The door slams behind him with a heavy  _ thud. _

* * *

**Extra:**

"Don't take it personally, Barriss," Chef Organa tells her.

She can't bring herself to look at him, even though the way she is sulking and staring at the sink is probably very rude.

"You've been here for a year, you know what he's like."

Whatever Head Chef Maul may be like (that is, unpleasant to boot!) she can't ignore the fact she will have to cut down on food considerably if she wants to keep the lights on this month. Chef Organa's words offer her no comfort—she doesn't expect someone of his stature to understand her struggles anyway.

It's nice to know there are kind people here too, though.

"Thank you," she whispers.


	4. Boba & the Cloning Process

Boba Fett's school day is finally over and he is tired. Boba throws his holobook in his backpack and stomps out of the classroom ahead of everyone else. For an active boy like him, having the galactic history class from one to two in the afternoon is simply  _ too _ much to bear. First, there’s the boring lessons and even more boring teacher, then the late hour and abysmally disinterested audience, and finally, because this torture is neverending, there's  _ the goddamn club activities at three pm. _

He's hungry and irritated with Tuesdays, but most of all he is annoyed with his father for signing him up to the special Dagobah Club event for children.

He's not a  _ child _ anymore. He's almost twelve!

Last time he went to the club, some old dude was teaching them how to make plushies. What's he even going to do with a toy bear? Boba's interested in herbariums and insectariums! He loves the thrill of hunting a bug through the weeds, catching it without damaging its carcass too much, and fixing it to a frame. Even researching the bug species afterwards is more intriguing than making  _ plushies. _

(In truth, there's not many bugs in this part of Coruscant, but Boba knows a few spots.)

The boy grabs a handful of pretzels from a random hole in the wall bakery and munches on them as he walks all the way to The Dagobah Club. There’s more than enough time for him to make it at a leisurely pace.

Situated near the central plaza of the district, the club is housed in some ancient building with far too many windows and a lot of stairs. Outside, it's painted in whites and yellows, cleanly done, but Boba is certain this place is actually a wreck that they are trying to mask very desperately. The wooden floors groan like it's been unattended for hundreds of years old and, sometimes, he thinks the place might be haunted.

There's a couple dozen more minutes until his appointment starts, but he enters anyway. He might as well get set up and get things over with. He promised his dad he'd try harder, so he fights past his exhaustion and annoyance and heads up to the children's hall.

(A goddamn children's hall!)

He walks in with his eyes glued to the floor and goes directly to the farthest chair in the room. 

"Hello! You're early," a warm voice comments.

Boba doesn't startle (at all!) and instead turns very composedly to the front of the class.

_ Crap, _ he thinks. It's the same old man as last week! 

Today, Master Jinn is sporting an atrocious shirt with tacky flowers and his long hair is tied in a bun. Who wears their hair this long nowadays anyway? Nobody cool, that's who!

"Hello," Boba returns rather lifelessly.

"I've prepared something very fun for us to do," the old man says.

_ Great. _

Boba nods out of politeness. He sits down, takes out one of his school books, flips it open at random and pretends he is studying. Perhaps Master Jinn won't be seeking any more conversation like this.

Around five minutes past three, the room is full of children. Boba is the oldest here, if you don't count that nerdy loser Lee-Char—and Boba certainly doesn't.

Master Jinn goes past the platitudes and small talk—the parts easy to tune out for Boba—then reaches their current activity: "Do we like modelling clay?"

The kids yell in agreement. (Boba is silent.)

"What about animals, do we like animals?"

Another wave of cheering.

"What if, hear me out," Master Jinn stage-whispers, bringing a hand to his mouth as if he were telling them a secret, "what if we make animals out of modelling clay?"

The cheering is deafening.

Have these kids never played with clay before? Boba Fett wrinkles his nose in disgust.

It's going to be a long,  _ long _ day here.

Around the halfway mark of the first hour (First of two! His heart cries out in anguish!), Boba excuses himself and seeks out the bathrooms. Master Jinn smiles kindly at him as the boy walks by him toward the door, not knowing that Boba has Plans.

(He does go splash some water on his face, but he never makes it back to the children's hall.)

The Dagobah Club is plenty interesting to explore. He keeps to the walls, thankful for his small body. There's vases and tables and chairs in the corridors, all very easy to duck behind, not to mention the long drapes hanging by each window, spanning from the ceiling to the floor. Should anyone walk by, he’s certain he could easily get away with it.

Right across from Master Yoda’s office Boba finds a pile of treasure. A small inconspicuous table lies by the window, covered in a large tray full of cookies, hard candies, gummy worms and what looks like coconut pralines, to name a few. Boba stops in his tracks and swallows.

He looks left and right, strains his ears really hard, but hears nothing.

Mind set, he tiptoes to the table, mindful of every sound he's making.

There's so many high quality snacks on it that he freezes with his hand hanging in the air, unable to decide. Should he go for the excellent coconut egg filled with hazelnut that he  _ knows _ to be sublime? Or try that sour worm over there, with such crystals of lemon salt on top of it that it is sure to be a ride as sour as hell?! Even the plain chocolate chip cookies seem otherworldly—maybe it's the lighting making them seem more appealing, but Boba would like to try them in any case, just to make sure.

Quality control and all that.

"You should try the soft candy. It is absolutely exquisite."

Boba hides his hands behind his back and swivels around in shock and dread.

"Go on now," the stranger insists. 

It's an old man, but not ancient like Master Jinn, with his grey hairs and all! This guy has a short beard and auburn hair and he seems to enjoy currently torturing Boba with further social embarrassment, if the way he is smirking is any indication.

The man takes one such candy for himself. “I could eat all of them!”

The wrapper noises remind Boba he very much wants to eat some as well. His eyes dart to the table for a moment, then settle back on the man.

"Oh, there's one more muffin left!" 

He leans over the table and fishes out a dazzling muffin, so fluffy looking and enticing that Boba instinctively takes a step forward. His hand jolts at his side in an attempt to reach for it.

The man squints at him, suddenly serious. "This is high quality," he warns.

"I would like to try it," Boba speaks up firmly. He returns the man's stare with equal intensity. He has decided what he wants and it is this muffin.

The man remains silent for several long seconds.

"The muffin, give to the child you should, Master Kenobi," a third person intervenes.

"Ah, Master Yoda," Master Kenobi bows respectfully.

Boba recognizes Master Yoda at once! He's seen the short green professor several times before conversing with staff on the hallways, while he was en route to the children's hall. It feels strange standing so close to the Master, because Boba is taller than him, and he is usually (unfortunately) only taller than children. Master Yoda's presence fills the entire corridor somehow. He commands a sort of quiet respect that Boba has never felt before, and it turns this weird feeling into worry that he is being disrespectful by looking down at the Master.

"Here, courtesy of Count Dooku." Master Kenobi holds out the sweet treat in a gentle grip. There are bits of purple inside the dough and the top is dusted in a similar purple, sparkling alluringly.

Boba Fett has never craved a muffin this much since he went to the Kamino Fair with his dad five years ago and ate the best sweets in the Galaxy.

He takes (snatches) the muffin and says, as an afterthought, "Thank you."

"Lost, are you, young one?" Master Yoda asks.

"Yes, I'm sorry." Boba avoids looking at him directly.

"Worry not. Help you Master Kenobi will." Master Yoda starts walking away with tiny steps. He stops a few meters away and adds, "The soft candy, try you must. Delicious."

With that, the Master finally departs.

  
  


"So?"

"..."

Master Kenobi chuckles. "Your expression says enough."

Boba is  _ starstruck. _ What  **was** that fantastic lavender spice goodness he’s just had? He’s unwrapping a different candy now, but he’s moving on autopilot, his mind still caught up in the deliciousness of the muffin.

"I was on my way to Master Ti. Do you like plants?"

"Yes," Boba says.

"Do you want to come with me? She is tending to her succulent garden right now."

Boba has two succulents at home! Interest piqued, he nods with a hint of enthusiasm and trails behind Master Kenobi like his little shadow to make sure they won't get separated on the way. Anything is better than modelling clay right now.

Master Kenobi takes him to areas of the club he hasn't been to before. They cross several corridors, take the stairs down to ground level, and then go through a small, partly hidden door into an inner courtyard. A tiled alley spans all the way from the entrance to the other side, where there is a tiny workshop set up. In the middle, the path splits into two, circles a birdbath placed precisely in the center, then converges into one again.

To the sides of the path spreads out a garden. Flowers upon flowers grow in colourful groups, their pattern broken by tomato stalks here and there. At the back of the garden, by the walls, is an intricate array of wooden sticks. A larger green plant is growing over them like ivy, climbing them to the tip. It is not a plant Boba knows, but he itches to get closer. Where there's dirt, there's also bugs!

"Here, this way," Master Kenobi says. He nudges Boba's shoulder gently, urging him on.

The workshop is built out of wooden beams, some bricks and its roof tiles are a mix of dusted gold and orange, like the builder didn't have enough tiles from one set and had to use leftovers. The door is kept open by a watering can. A few hooks are mounted on the inside of the door, bearing the weight of several long aprons and several pairs of gardening gloves.

Master Kenobi takes an apron for himself and hands a visibly smaller one to Boba. 

"Shaak Ti? We're here." He walks further inside the workshop. "I hope you don't mind the extra company."

The boy follows him quietly. The smell of greenery and fresh dirt is stronger and the air feels more humid.

"Oh, not at all! I just started," Master Ti says apologetically. "I thought you weren't coming after all."

"Something kept me," Master Kenobi says—and he throws a sideways glance to Boba coupled with a small smile. 

Boba blushes, embarrassed. His cheeks become even redder when he and Master Ti finally see each other: she nods at him in greeting, warmth and excitement on her face, and all he can do is widen his eyes slightly and hope it means 'hello' on some other planet. She is strikingly beautiful! Her striped lekku are long and draping over her shoulders elegantly, and her face markings bring out the curious, approachable look in her eyes.

"Welcome, little one! What is…" she trails off. Her gaze becomes even more intense as she searches his face for something. "Are you Jango's son? You look just like him!"

"I'm Boba," he stresses petulantly. Everywhere he goes, people won't stop comparing him to his dad!

"Come closer, Boba. Today I want to multiply my echeveria."

Boba looks to Master Kenobi first, who nods to him encouragingly, then he steps closer to Master Ti's working area. A cactus in a simple, black pot sits to the side of the table, while the rest of the surface is covered in trays full of dirt. Master Ti has a set of clippers ready and some newspaper pages arranged in a stack.

"I have two succulents," Boba says.

"Really? What sort?"

It turns out chatting with this lady is a lot easier than with the rest of the people here. Boba starts the conversation with talk about his succulents and somehow ends up taking her on a journey through his bug-hunting plans, all without a single complaint from her side. At some point, Master Kenobi joins in as well and asks him more about the bugs.

It becomes really hard to stop talking after that.

The one lull in conversation is when Master Ti tells him how to handle the cactus.

"Peel off each leaf from the stem, but be very careful. Don't break the base."

"Can I try now?" Boba asks, craning his neck to see the cactus in her hands better.

"Yes. Put each leaf in a row on these trays. We'll get over twenty echeveria out of this one single specimen!" Master Ti exclaims, clasping her hands together. "They should be big enough to be sold next season."

"The new cactus will… simply grow from a single leaf?"

"Yes!" She grins, full of glee. "Isn't it wonderful? The only trouble is waiting for them to grow… but essentially, we are never going to run out of cacti!"

Boba knew the plants were pretty resilient (his haven't died yet, which is the only proof he really needs to accept it) but he never thought they'd be  _ this _ good at recovering from injuries.

The conversation moves back to bugs while he works under Master Ti's watchful gaze. At the end, she checks each leaf proudly, and firmly claps him over the shoulder.

"Excellent work, my student. You may spray them with some water. Not too much!"

He gives the water bottle a tentative go in the air to check its stream, then aims it at the future cacti.

"Lightly! Lightly!" Master Ti reminds him.

He sprays them perfectly.

"Thank you for your help, Boba! If you want to learn more about plants, seek me out. You know where to find me now."

"Thank you, Master Ti," Boba says and  _ means it. _

Master Kenobi takes him back to the front of the club. He doesn't say anything much, but Boba has a feeling the Master is very, very pleased with himself about something. Boba doesn't mind the secrecy that much though—he finally had some fun on a Tuesday!

* * *

**Extra:**

"If you're looking for young Boba Fett, don't worry about him, Master. I sent him home."

Qui-Gon Jinn breathes out in relief. "Thank you! He went to the bathroom and then I lost track of him. Little Lee-Char had a small accident with the scissors," he says. 

There is such tiredness in his voice that Obi-Wan's plans to tease his Master about the lost child lose their spark quite quickly. However, there is something important he must know. "I have a question."

"Yes?"

"The goods Count Dooku brought for us this morning…" Obi-Wan is mildly embarrassed to be asking such a thing, but the answer is definitely worth the pain. "Do you know where he got them from?"

Qui-Gon Jinn nods. "I've been to the place myself a few times. Quite the homely diner!"

Obi-Wan stares at him, waiting for actual directions.

"I liked the staff too, they seem to have struck the balance between laid back and dedicated."

"Master."

"Oh, I do remember I ordered a cup of one of these fancy pumpkin spice drinks everyone's drinking nowadays and it was—"

_ "Master," _ Obi-Wan stresses. "What's it called?'

"Oh! Angel Falls!"

Obi-Wan sighs. "Thank you."


	5. Ahsoka & the Private Life of the Skywalkers

Ahsoka Tano-Koon's free day begins with engine trouble. Her small, second-hand hover bike has been having problems for a while now and today may just be the day Ahsoka has to let it rest. 

She inspects the bike with dread, but she knows exactly what the problem is even before she removes the outside panels.

_ Yep. _ She sighs.

A burnt spark plug.

An easy fix—had she had a spare one. As it is, she's been postponing that task for a day too long and in this part of Coruscant, there's not that many shops open on a Sunday, mechanically-themed or otherwise, not to mention that a small shop might not even have what she needs. Her bike is a fifteen year old model that was decommissioned five years ago. 

She  _ could _ go to Trace's house and see if she has any spark plugs of this model, though it'd be quite a walk.

Without much of a choice, Ahsoka puts on a hat for the wind, throws her blue poncho on, and sets out.

"Sorry, hun, Trace isn't around. I have a client to meet, so chop-chop!" Trace’s sister, Rafa, says and locks their front door.

"Wait! Where can I find her?"

"Hmm, she said something about a Skywalker." Rafa gives her a vague address, a little wave, and then she rushes down the street, trench coat trailing behind her.

_ Skywalker? _

"Thanks!" Ahsoka cries at Rafa's retreating back, waving. Could it be the same Skywalker…?

It  _ is _ the same Skywalker, Ahsoka finds out half an hour later. 

The GPS led her to the poorer district, to a house covered in grapevine and guarded by a sign saying 'The Droid Bites.'

She hears laughing, then Trace Martez exits the yard with a box in her hands. Behind her steps out none other than Anakin Skywalker,  _ chef extraordinaire _ of Angel Falls.

Ahsoka's eyes widen. 

"Thanks again," Trace tells Skywalker. "I owe you."

"It was about time you owed me instead," Skywalker retorts good naturedly, "I can only afford getting  _ so _ many free coupons at the diner."

Trace shrugs, completely unbothered by his comment. "Free food is free food. Oh, hey, Ahsoka!"

Ahsoka blinks, surprised at being addressed.

"Ahsoka?" Skywalker repeats. He leans out through the open doorway and sees her standing on the sidewalk. "Ahsoka! What are you doing here?"

"Hi…" She busies herself with fixing her poncho. "I was looking for Trace, actually."

The girl in question beams. "Ahsoka, do you know Ani?"

"Yes, I do," Ahsoka says. "How do  _ you _ know him?"

Trace waves her free hand around for effect, but quickly brings it back to her side to balance the box in her hold. She throws Skywalker a smirk before she addresses Ahsoka again, "We go way back. A couple of little aspiring engineers."

"Aspiring engineers?" Ahsoka looks to Skywalker, not quite believing what she heard. Could they have more in common than she'd previously expected? But it's hard to picture Skywalker as a mechanic, when he keeps acting Cool and talking about his culinary career as if it's his dream job.

"More or less," Skywalker says. He folds his arms and leans on the doorframe.

The grease-stained overalls he's got on right now might be a dead giveaway though. This sight is so removed from what she’s used to (him breaking uniform with a tacky shirt or another at the diner), that she needs a moment to reconcile the two images. 

"What did you need, Ahsoka?" Trace asks. She puts her box in the saddle bag of her own hover bike, parked next to the fence.

"My bike's fried and I need a MT-2055 spark plug. I was hoping you had one…"

Trace's expression falls. "I’m all out of parts for MT-2055. Is it an emergency?"

"Oh,” Ahsoka deflates. “It's fine, I'll deal with it."

"I might have some," Skywalker butts in, "if you can wait for a bit while I look for them."

Ahsoka turns to him, not quite daring to hope he would help her so easily after all the little snarky fights they've had the past month. Skywalker looks genuine, though, and he gestures for her to enter.

"Well, I gotta go. See ya!" Trace salutes to them both with two fingers, then straddles her hover bike and drives away.

Ahsoka follows Skywalker into the yard. An astromech droid bumps into her as soon as she steps inside, colliding painfully with her right hip. It lets out a series of furious beeps, prompting a small huff out of her.

"I'm watching you too, little bud," she throws right back at it.

"You speak droid?" Laughing, he pats the head of the astromech droid fondly. "Settle down, Artoo, it's just Ahsoka. She's a friend from the diner." To Ahsoka, he says, "This is R2D2. It's a feisty one."

Once Artoo calms down and lets her be, Ahsoka gets a chance to look around. The grapevine extends around the house all the way to the back of the yard. On the right there is a garage spanning the length of the property; one door is slid open, through which she sees a couple of hover bikes and some toolboxes left on the ground. Above the yard, some vines reach out from the house to the garage and circle its roof like a green crown.

"MT-2055, hmm, those are out of production, aren't they?" Skywalker gestures for her to come closer and enters the garage. "Perhaps you should upgrade to something newer."

Ahsoka pouts. That bike has sentimental value to her—she hesitates to modify it in any way and hearing Skywalker propose this makes her a tad annoyed.

"I guess," she says. It  _ is _ true she should upgrade, but by the Force is it painful to consider it!

While he rummages through a set of drawers in search of the parts, Ahsoka takes her time to look around. The hover bikes she saw earlier are two fetching models, coated in a shiny new layer of paint. She itches to touch the handlebars of the black one, nearest to her, but somehow keeps her impulses in check.

"Are these yours?" Ahsoka asks, decidedly not jealous.

Skywalker looks back briefly. "Nah, I fixed them up for someone. They're pretty neat, though, aren't they?"

"Yeah."

When does this guy find the time to repair bikes? She gives Skywalker another look once he has his back to her. He seems very comfortable here, moving from one drawer to the next with practiced ease. When he finds what he's looking for, Skywalker lets out a cry of triumph like a little child. He brandishes an entire package of spark plugs, holding them in the air like they're a holy artifact—and they might as well be, considering they're becoming rarer and rarer with each passing day.

Ahsoka brightens up herself.

He traverses the garage back to her and hands her the stuff.

"This is the model you need, right?"

"Yes. Thank you!" She inspects the package to make sure. It is indeed what she needs and more than that, it's a total of six new spark plugs. Six! Last time she saw a complete package it was at an auction show on the other side of the city.

"Uhh, I think I have enough creds on me for two," she says.

"What?"

Ahsoka stops midway from ripping the sealed plastic open and extracting the parts.

"I guess that… depends on how much you're selling one for?" She watches him in confusion, growing stiff and awkward at the unexpected impasse they've reached.

Skywalker is staring at her like she's grown an extra head. "Wait, wait, wait! I'm not selling these. I'm  _ giving _ them to you!"

Ahsoka's mind blanks. When did Cool and Whiny Skywalker turn into Generous and Altruistic Skywalker? She's staring at him but her eyes don't see him (nor his equally confused face.) Instead they find Dad in one of her memories who once told her in his great wisdom: "Judge only as much as you know."

Of course, she'd been thirteen and rebellious at the time. She may have taken the words quite literally, but now she understands what he truly meant—and this isn't a revelation she wanted to have in (virtually) a stranger's house, but it's happening. 

_ Do not judge too harshly if you do not know enough, _ she thinks. Yes, that works much better.

"Hey, Snips, are you still with me?" Skywalker waves a hand in front of her face. "Ground Control to Commander Tano."

Ahsoka blinks at him. "Are you sure?"

Skywalker relaxes now that she's responding like an intelligent lifeform again. "They're just gathering dust here. You certainly will put them to better use than me," he says with his stupid little self-assured smirk plastered to his face.

For once, Ahsoka's temper doesn't actually flare like before. Sure, it nudges her from the innards of her chest, but it's leftover warmth from the way the two of them would get worked up arguing over nothing. This time, she sees more. Skywalker's eyes sparkle in genuine mirth, his hands are folded over his chest lazily, not patronisingly at all, and the laid back way he leans on the nearest surface (a stack of cardboard boxes in this case) just accentuates how pleased he is to know he can help. Unlike before, Ahsoka senses the mischief hiding behind his little smirk and feels herself in on the fun.

She secures the package to the pouch tied to her belt, then expresses her gratitude once more.

"Still, I would like to pay you back somehow," she says. "You could have gotten some money if you sold these."

"Hmm…" Skywalker watches her seriously. He rests his elbow on his other hand and strokes his chin slowly as he thinks.

"Food's ready!"

Both of them jump and turn to the door.

"Ani! Quick, before it gets cold!" The same woman's voice cries out.

A moment later, a brown haired lady steps inside the garage.

"Oh! Hello," she tells Ahsoka. "I didn't realize we had guests. I'll go add another plate!"

"Mom—"

"Wait, I was just—"

"Come, come, the food is ready!" The lady goes back to the house, completely ignoring their protests.

They look at each other, Ahsoka a bit overwhelmed, and Skywalker mostly tired, sighing.

"It's baked potatoes with a few cheeses. Interested?" Perhaps he sees some doubt on Ahsoka's face, because he explains further: "If you're busy, I'll talk to mom, but I'd like it if you could stay. We haven't really had a moment to just chat, have we?"

It's only been a month of working at Angel Falls, so it's not that much of a surprise, but Ahsoka quietly admits to herself:  _ Perhaps I didn't give you the chance in the first place. _

It could be nice.

"Alright, I'm staying."

"Yes! You go on ahead, I need to change."

In the foyer of the house, Ahsoka introduces herself with a little bow. "I'm an engineering student and a waitress at Angel Falls."

"Oh, you're Ahsoka? I've heard a few things about you!" Skywalker's mother clasps her hands in front of her chest in delight. "Is it true that you stopped a thief right in front of the diner?"

Ahsoka feels her face heating up. "It's true, but it wasn't as impressive as it sounds…"

That incident happened on her second day of work, just as she was going to the diner. She didn't even need to do anything—the thief actually bumped into her, fell to the ground, and dropped the stolen goods.

"Nevertheless, well done! I am Shmi Skywalker," she says.

"Nice to meet you, ma'am."

The lady smiles at her very kindly and Ahsoka quickly figures out where Skywalker's got his charm from.

Shmi Skywalker leads her to the kitchen. The furniture there is mismatched, but homely. It feels a bit like stepping down into the earth: tones of brown, yellow and dark red permeate the whole aesthetic, and though each individual piece seems to be part of a separate collection, the palette brings them together pleasantly. The table, placed underneath the window, is covered in a shiny tabletop decorated with a lemony pattern. It is already laden with dishes and cutlery, one plate set on each of the three free sides of the table. In the center lies a ceramic pot full of the main dish—the smell is absolutely mouthwatering.

Ahsoka is shown to one of the seats. So much closer to the food, she realizes now she might have skipped breakfast today and it  _ is _ getting close to noon…

"Please, take as much as you want!" 

Kind of embarrassed but trying to overcome this feeling, Ahsoka starts scooping up a few potatoes. They're small, but still she wonders if it would be rude to fish five from the get-go…

"Dig in, Snips, I know you secretly like my baked stuff," says Skywalker from the doorway.

Blushing, Ahsoka adds one more potato to her plate.

"You must have heard Rex, he's the one singing your praises constantly."

Skywalker laughs. "I did hear Rex, but he was quoting you."

Unsure what to say to that (and in front of his mother, too!) Ahsoka takes a bite and keeps herself busy.

"Rex is such a well mannered young man," Mrs. Skywalker says. "He made sure I could get to the station safely the other day."

"Mom, that was Cody," Skywalker says, pointing around with his fork.

"No, no, this was Rex, I'm sure of it," she stresses. "He was on his way home when we met near the diner."

"Wait, what were you looking for in the area?"

An uncomfortable silence falls over the table. Ahsoka looks down at her plate, trying her best to appear as inconspicuous as possible.

"I needed to clear my head and I took a walk," Mrs. Skywalker says. If not for the brief lapse in conversation before, it would have sounded quite believable.

Ahsoka glances at Skywalker from the corner of her eye and catches him looking at his mother, eyebrows furrowed like he's onto a bigger mystery here.

"Hey, Skyguy, you have to admit there's plenty to be seen around our place!" she pipes in with a heap of fake cheer sprinkled over her words.  _ "The Temple _ alone is worth the trip."

Skywalker huffs. "I guess."

Her plan works out, though.

"What is The Temple?" the mother asks, once more light-hearted and at ease.

"It's a small park," Skywalker explains. "It has a set of walls arranged strangely in the center—some sort of artistic statement about mazes and society."

"But," Ahsoka adds, grinning cheekily, "it is now better known as a rendezvous point for couples."

"It  _ is _ rather charming," Skywalker admits.

Mother Skywalker smiles too. "You two made me so curious! I must see it."

After lunch and another hour of exchanging life anecdotes, Ahsoka prepares to leave. Before she goes, though, there is one more matter to be solved.

"How about this, Snips," Skywalker drawls, once again leaning against the wall. "I give you these spark plugs for free, but you bring your bike around sometime and we can work on it together."

"Reasonable deal," Ahsoka agrees. "And if I needed some hand-on experience for school…"

He nods toward his garage as he replies, "Everything is game." 

"Perfect! See you tomorrow, Skyguy!"

* * *

**Extra:**

"I'm glad you're making friends, Ani," Shmi tells him.

"You make it sound like I don't know anyone," Anakin mumbles, folding his arms. "Besides, I thought Ahsoka didn't like me very much."

"You should find a flat closer to the city, I'll be fine here." Even as she says it she knows the words are falling on deaf ears.

"Mom! Again with this? You don't even have a job right now!" He turns to her in one brusque movement. "I'm not leaving you!"

"You wouldn't be  _ abandoning _ me, Ani. I just want you to live your own life, to—"

_ "Mom, _ I'm fixing things and cooking for my best friend. This is the best life I could ever ask for. You aren't dragging me down."

She rests a hand on his chest. He works too much to keep them afloat and it hurts her to know there is little she can do to convince him to fly away. 

Despite how hard she's trying, nobody seems to want to hire her. In a sad, twisted way, she can see why too: well into her fifties with barely any proper certificates under her belt, she is just another disposable citizen in the large, large city of Coruscant. There's many people still in their prime who can do any job much better than her.

"You seem so lonely sometimes," she says, barely above a whisper. (Any louder and she fears she might tear up.)

"I'm just tired, mom. Don't worry."

She sighs.

If she doesn't find work soon, she may have to take Mr Palpatine on his offer, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm four chapters ahead with the writing but the Palpatine one has been giving me grief for some time now. Oof


	6. Ventress & the Convoluted Ways of the Force

"What about these?"

Ventress arches her right foot delicately, showing off the pristine pair of pumps she is trying on. They're far more comfortable than expected, though the pure white colour might pose a problem long term.

"You look beautiful," Savage says.

"Yes, yes,” she says as takes a few steps around the aisle, “but is this better than the other pair?"

Savage follows her with his eyes from where he's standing next to the stiletto collection. He's carrying a dozen shopping bags and without complaint at that—they've been going from shop to shop for four hours already and he is still patiently (obediently?) waiting for her to find the perfect shoes. 

What's for sure is that he isn't very keen on giving her proper feedback.

"The dark blue one was quite fetching on you too…" he says quietly.

This is exactly what the problem is. She knows she looks good in them, but Savage is very diplomatic. Too diplomatic, perhaps. Maul and Savage are quite different, especially in this regard. While the former wouldn’t hesitate to describe his opinion in detail, Savage prefers to go along with the flow and nod rather than voice his thoughts right away. Next time she'll ask around and see if Obi-Wan Kenobi is free. Now  _ that's _ a man with good fashion sense.

"Ventress!"

Speaking of the devil…

"Kenobi," she replies evenly, without revealing a single hint of the actual relief taking over her.

The man is dressed as fetching as ever, she notes with pleasure. His trademark shirt is sporting a daring pattern today: wide, vertical stripes, alternating between dark blue and white. The sleeves are folded neatly above the elbow and pinned in place with a small button. 

"I recognized Mr Opress through the glass and I had to come in." He gives Savage a polite nod in lieu of hello. "We haven't seen each other in quite some time, have we?"

Since a whopping two months ago, to be exact, before she quit her job as a bartender at  _ The Senate. _

"Kenobi, be a darling and help out a poor woman in distress." Ventress puts on the blue shoe on her left foot and displays them both side by side. "Which one?"

The man takes several seconds to observe them. Stroking his beard in deep concentration, he directs Ventress to turn around in a slow circle and walk a few meters.

"Do you have a certain outfit in mind? What's the occasion?" he asks absently.

Ventress shrugs. "Impulse buy."

"Do you always need two extra opinions when you 'impulse' buy?"

"Har har, how clever you are, Kenobi! I almost forgot about this charming side of yours."

He chuckles. "Good thing I'm here to remind you, then."

Savage, who has waited patiently up until this point, intervenes very firmly: "The blue pair." Then, serious but charming in his very particular way, he adds, "They balance your eyes and make them seem like jewels."

"I must agree with Mr Opress," Kenobi says.

Finally—some closure!

"Excellent. Thank you, boys," she drawls.

With this fine addition to her collection, she wraps up the shopping trip. She takes the numerous bags from Savage, hands them off to Kenobi wordlessly, then plants a kiss on Savage's cheek, leaving behind a bright red stain in the shape of her lips.

"Thank you for coming along, dear. It's almost time for your shift at the hellhole, isn't it?" 

Savage smiles at her—and that's all anybody needs to know about him, really. Big, burly, but willing to lend a helping hand at any time of the day. This last feature came as a surprise when Ventress first met him, but it's what made him stand out from the rest. He means well.

They're friends—and Ventress doesn't do friends, so this means a lot.

She bids him goodbye, then sighs dramatically once he is way out of sight. She is pretty tired herself.

"You look good," says Kenobi.

She frowns at him. "Are you coming down with a cold? You're never this obvious about your crippling infatuation with me."

"I  _ mean," _ Kenobi stresses, completely disregarding her words, "I am glad the sudden career shift didn't throw you off your game."

Ventress gives him a blank look. Obi-Wan Kenobi isn't as close to her as Savage, but as they kept meeting in odd places over the years they've somehow struck a strange camaraderie. Perhaps that's not a good word for it, but it is the closest she has for now. 

"I'm good. I'm teaching girls how to handle liquor—literally." And it's more fun than she ever expected! A memory from yesterday's bartending class brings a smile to her face—just a twitch of the lips, really—but enough to carry her away briefly. Mother Talzin's school really is a welcoming place.

"...had fun, you know?"

She blinks and pretends she heard everything he said. If the proud and content way he's holding himself is any sign, he must have said something about his club.

_ Ugh _ , the club. 

_ The _ Club.

She has no idea how he can stand listening to middle aged pretentious people for so many hours a day, when it’s clear as day they’re all there only because the Club’s staff lineup is, to put it simply, drop dead gorgeous. What's a more successful duo than hot employees plus the fake sense of elitism offered by meditation and crafting techniques? All the retired politicians and their spouses are probably blushing at the thought alone!

"Say, Obi-Wan…" she starts lowly, letting her face do most of the persuasion. "I'd love to grab a bite and I know a place nearby."

"You just need someone to carry your stuff for you," Kenobi grumbles, not entirely wrong. (But she won't let him know that.)

"And how lucky I am that someone as strong and as dependable as you has crossed my path today! Truly, it must be the will of the Force!"

"That's not how the Force works," Kenobi says tiredly. It takes some of the fun out of it, but they've had this sort of banter far too many times now. 

She doesn't blame him.

"Lead the way, Your Ladyship."

_ "Angel Falls?!" _ Kenobi is so surprised he almost drops her newly bought pair of shoes.

"Ah, I see you are a man of culture as well." Ventress stifles a chuckle. She has rarely seen Kenobi look so flabbergasted. "This is the best diner on Coruscant—do  _ not _ let anyone tell you otherwise."

"I was planning on coming here soon," he says. "I didn't realize it would be  _ this _ soon."

"Prepare yourself, in that case."

They enter the diner and are immediately surrounded by the sweetest of smells: fresh, still steaming pies.

Obi-Wan Kenobi's face goes on a journey of expressions as he walks past her, from awe to interest to downright fierce determination. He beelines to the glass vitrine by the register, lured in by the baked goods.

Ventress watches him go with a smirk, well aware that another poor soul has fallen prey to this place. Her own relationship with Angel Falls is complicated at best and hopelessly disastrous at worst, but she clings to it still with fondness. 

(Better here than that pretentious,  _ infuriating restaurant—) _

With the help of a young waiter, Ventress claims a two-person table nestled in the back corner of the place. There is some sort of ivy trailing along the wall, hooking itself onto the special wiring set up on the wallpaper with small, green tendrils. It all extends from a tall, thick pot placed behind one of the chairs at this table.

Ventress leaves that seat empty for Kenobi and settles down with the menu.

"Ventress! This place is…"

"I know. Here, take a look." She pushes the other menu toward him. "I recommend the  _ Senator's Late Night, _ it is a perfect blend of caffeine and white chocolate."

"It's too late for coffee," Kenobi says, but looks over the caffeinated beverages nonetheless.

"Trust me on this."

He purses his lips, undecided. After flipping through the pages for another minute, Kenobi finally has his order.

They catch up and gossip for the most part while waiting for the food to arrive. After that, Ventress sits back and enjoys the silence as Kenobi discovers the delicacies of the diner. He’s always got something to say, so to find him so absorbed by the dishes that he is rendered speechless pleases her greatly.

“Most people can’t afford dining at five star restaurants,” Padmé told Ventress years ago, when their lives were rather tangled up, “but everyone deserves to eat good food.”

Back then, Ventress called her naive and kissed her.

Now she sees Padmé’s dream taking shape right before her eyes and she regrets how casually she teased her. Padmé probably doesn’t even remember that simple throwaway line, but Ventress does. It haunts her slowly, like a large, harmless black cloud which follows her around, always ten steps behind, and which touches the back of her neck now and then and makes chills go down her spine as a quiet reminder. So casually she had dismissed her ex-girlfriend’s aspirations just because Ventress thought that doing good is too hard to be worth the effort!

As she is eating her own food, Ventress feels the cloud creeping up again.

_ I’m doing my part now, _ she thinks fiercely. She hasn’t told Padmé everything yet, but she’s in her corner one hundred percent.

The Senate can burn.

"Hey, kid!" Ventress waves her hand to the waiter to catch his attention.

The boy's face turns visibly red when they make eye contact. He fumbles with his uniform to fix his bowtie just to have a reason to look away, then he approaches their table with a remnant hint of decorum.

"Is Chef Amidala in today?" she asks. The name rolls off her tongue weirdly despite the familiarity between her and Padmé.  _ Don't even go there, Ventress, _ she reminds herself.

(Still, another part of her mind goes, " _ Padmé, Padmé, Padmé..!" _ at simply the mention of the woman.)

"No, ma'am."

Ah.

"Who's in, then?"

"Chef Skywalker, ma'am."

_ Ah. _

The boy shifts from one foot to the other, clearly anxious. "Is there any trouble with the food?"

Ventress shakes her head. "Nothing of the sort. I would like to speak with him, however."

The waiter nods and gives them both a little bow before he leaves.

Kenobi throws her a pointed look over the rim of his mug. "What are you scheming now?" he asks and takes a sip of his coffee.  _ (Senator's Late Night, _ because nobody argues with Ventress.)

"Oh, nothing much. Checking in on a seed I've planted, you could say."

"You're going to get in real trouble one…" His words gradually slow down and then he trails off altogether.

Ventress raises an eyebrow at him, but he isn't looking at her anymore. She follows his line of sight, finds Chef Skywalker walking toward their table, and she sighs, already regretting everything.

Is Kenobi actually this predictable or has she misjudged him?

"No need to worry about me," she says, eyes back on her friend and watching his every move.

Kenobi turns to her for a second, face kind of dazed.

"What?"

_ "Ugh, _ you disappoint me, Obi-Wan," Ventress mutters, more to herself than anything.

The confusion on Kenobi's face grows.

"Asajj Ventress, what an unpleasant surprise!" Skywalker says the moment he's within range.

Ventress' temper flares for one whole second before she composes herself. With grace and dignity, as she's been taught to move and act by Mother Talzin, she sets aside the contempt she has for Anakin Skywalker and says, with her fingers steepled underneath her chin,

"Excellent vegetable plateau today, Chef."

"Thank you,” Skywalker replies at once. “Get out."

"Anakin, can't we put our differences aside?" She brings one hand to her forehead. "Please do not embarrass me in front of my guest."

As if just now noticing Kenobi in the other chair, Skywalker reigns in some of his spite (which could be seen all over his face from a parsec away) and gives the man an exaggerated bow.

"Welcome to Angel Falls,” he says, entirely soullessly.

Why, Ventress would be impressed with the amount of vitriol she's managed to spark in this man if it didn't also interfere with her plans for the future. They need to get along or at least be on neutral terms if she's to ever get her revenge. A difficult task, to say the least.

On the other side of the table, Obi-Wan Kenobi appears mildly oblivious to the charged sentences thrown back and forth. He nods in agreement with whatever Skywalker says, and Ventress is sure that if she leaned over the table just a little bit, she could see little stars twinkling in Kenobi's eyes.

This is catastrophic.

If she loses another person to Skywalker—

_ (Savage must never meet him, _ she decides on the spot.)

"Let's not make this harder than it has to be," she says. "I'm interested in the recipe. Did it work?"

Skywalker narrows his eyes at her. For a handful of seconds, he just… stares at her, studying her face intently. It feels quite unnerving, a moment of déjà-vu to the day Padmé introduced her to him.

Why did this guy's approval matter to Padmé so much anyway?

Somehow, he's the one responsible with the recipe now as well!

Perhaps Ventress is simply cursed to be foiled by Anakin Skywalker at every turn.

"I'm still working on adjusting it," Skywalker says.

What a surprisingly civilized answer!

"It's been enough time—"

"I'm  _ perfecting _ it," he cuts her off in annoyance. "We don't serve  **their** food. We serve ours."

"Your food is incomparable."

Both Ventress and Skywalker stop glaring at each other and turn to Kenobi. For a second there she forgot he was listening to them.

This sugar-addled remark is what they needed to get back on solid ground, though. Ventress takes a couple of deep breaths, finds her center and stabilizes herself—she's been working on a lot of this stuff, ok? There's no need to keep being petty for the sake of it.

"Thanks," Skywalker says, himself looking a bit more mellow than moments ago. "We do our best. Have you tried today's special?"

"Oh, yes!" Kenobi turns to Ventress suddenly. "You  _ must _ try this," he says with a tad too much enthusiasm.

"I have tried the apple filling one before.”

"But this one—" he focuses on the lump of berry pie impaled on his fork "—this one is perfect! Simply flawless!"

Ventress smiles politely. She leans back on the chair and watches them in silence, pondering. It's true the skill of all the people employed here is highly impressive.  _ (Not  _ just  _ Skywalker's, _ she reminds herself for the sake of her mental well-being.) Obi-Wan Kenobi is within his right to bestow this many compliments to the chef and she would say more too, except the chef today is who it is and their past history is what it is.

"Such balance between the sourness of the fruit and the sweetness of the dough!”

“It was quite challenging to achieve!” Skywalker beams. “This black berry is from Shili, home of the Togruta. When cooked, the time frame when the flavour reaches its peak is very narrow; missing it by a couple of minutes is enough to turn the fruit quite bitter.”

“Fascinating!" 

"It's why you will see this fruit either dried or served cold most of the time," Skywalker adds smugly. He's ignoring Ventress completely now, which suits her just fine. “I am relieved to hear it turned out well. Thank you."

Perhaps what she actually needs is a middleman. Watching Kenobi now as he's hanging onto every word Padmé's guard dog says, this might just be the missing link.

Much later, when she's been home for a few hours already and drawing a bubble bath for herself, her phone pings.

> **Padmé:** hi! Ani told me you came by today   
>  **Padmé:** sorry I wasn't there 😔   
>  **Padmé:** he figured out what was missing from The Thing tho!! 😊   
>  **Padmé:** we should meet sometime   
>  **Padmé:** hang out   
>  **Padmé:** plan this properly

"Hang out," Ventress reads outloud, testing the words. "Hang out…"

> **Ventress:** I'll let you know when I'm free   
>  **Padmé:** great!

_ This is it, _ she thinks.  _ Progress. _

Now if only she read that The Senate burnt to a crisp on the news tonight, her life would be complete.

* * *

**Extra:**

_ "Psst, _ Lux," Ahsoka calls to him from the cash register. "What's up with Skyguy?"

She nods toward Anakin sitting at one of the diner tables, who has spent the past half an hour alternating between staring at nothing, sighing dreamily, and scribbling things in his recipe notebook.

Lux Bonteri's lips stretch into a sly, highly conspiratorial smile. He signals her to come closer. With one hand hiding his mouth from sight, he whispers to her, "I think he has a crush."

_ "What!" _

Anakin glances at them briefly.

Lux waves awkwardly.

"Don't say anything yet," Lux tells her under his breath.

Ahsoka narrows her eyes at Anakin, then maintains that same focus when she looks back at Lux. 

"Who is it?"

They turn their backs to the tables and huddle closer to the register. With extra protection from the computer screen and a slight adjustment to the background music volume, Lux finally tells her everything, starting with the intimidating bald lady (who gives  _ his _ voice a little waver as he explains her sporadic visits to Angel Falls), then their animated conversation, and ending with the lingering look Anakin threw over his shoulder at the lady's companion before he went back to the kitchen.

"No way…" Ahsoka's shoulders slump in defeat. "I can't believe I wasn't here for this!"

Lux pats her back. "I wouldn't worry too much. I think that man will be back. I'm sure of it, in fact."

"Devilishly handsome, huh…"

"You have no idea."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a strong contender for my favorite chapter I've written for this story yet! ♥


	7. Savage & the Dagobah Tea Party

Savage Opress used to think he didn't need much in life to be happy. He has a small flat, a cat, a job… all more than enough to live a decent life. Up until now, it worked seamlessly, but lately Savage hasn't been doing very well. He comes home tired and weary—two parts of this problem that are easy to fix. A quick nap with Toothsie next to him recharges his batteries right away. No, the real problem lies in this: he is worried for his brother Maul and this feeling cannot be done away with so easily.

Everyday of working at  _ The Senate _ makes Savage wonder if perhaps his brother would be better suited working elsewhere. The seed of this idea was planted two months ago by Miss Ventress' explosive departure, but it's grown in size only recently.

The Dagobah Club is a strange place in this area of Coruscant. It feels timeless, in a way. Savage has been there more times than he can count and each time, stepping through the main door makes him feel as though he is walking through a portal into a world with lesser responsibilities and no headaches. It eases the muscles and opens the mind for whatever activities are planned for the day, activities which Savage usually finds quite relaxing. Then add to this peaceful state of mind the fact that the mentors at the Club are all honest, charming people and stumbling over this community center becomes a lucky, most delightful discovery! They are quite different from one another, so Savage firmly believes at least one person should be able to click with his brother.

Today, he's tackling this topic once again. Armed with blackmail both emotional and physical, he knocks on the door to his brother's flat and waits.

Maul unlocks the door a minute later. The way his expression is already set in exasperation tells a lot about his day.

"I didn't realize you would be coming here right away," Maul mutters as he lets Savage in.

"The session is in an hour and a half, yes, but I've brought you something."

Savage hands him a green round takeaway box. He tried his best to scribble over the logo on his way here, but part of the Angel Falls waterfall is still visible. There aren't that many diners around with this colour scheme, so it's easy to guess this one's origin.

Maul looks at it blankly, but doesn't comment.

He must be really tired.

"Pie?" Maul opens the box fully and angles the food into the light. He breathes in hungrily, successfully distracted by the dessert. "Oh, the smell…"

_ Courtesy of Ventress, _ Savage thinks. If he mentioned her name out-loud, it would surely get a reaction from his brother—and not the happy sort—so Savage doesn't insist.

He herds Maul into his own kitchen, pushing him by the shoulders and guiding him like a mother would guide her child. A stack of pizza boxes and instant soup cans are piled on one half of the table. The sight stops Savage in his tracks. 

"What are you eating, bro?" 

Maul sets down the pie on the free part of the table. Looking at the takeaway wrappers brings about a shrug and an eye roll. "What does it look like?"

"Junk food? What about the meals from work? Why do you…"

"I'm tired of that place," Maul says. "I don't want to eat Palpatine's goddamn food anymore."

Savage lays a hand on his brother's shoulder in comfort. With gentleness (or an attempt at it, at least,) he says, "I can cook for you. Give me a call next time, okay?"

Maul sighs tiredly.

“Please, brother. I worry.”

_ “Tsk.” _

Maul doesn’t look at him at all. He grabs a fork, settles down on a chair and starts eating the pie in menacing silence. There’s more colour to his movements and he seems to relax as the minutes go by, so Savage hangs back and lets him be. Hopefully, they will both get a chance to breathe at the Club.

_ “This _ is what you’ve been insisting on for the past month?”

Maul glares at the furniture in the room like it has brought him personal offense. Today, the cushions are strewn all over the floor in a mess of color. Most of them are already claimed by the other patrons: older ladies, gentlemen, and distinguished citizens, who took great care in settling down when they entered. 

Savage notices one of the ladies nearby looking at them strangely and he smiles in apology. His brother doesn’t care how abrasive he appears to the world.

“It’s nice,” is all Savage says.

Maul sighs. 

Not too long after that the instructor enters the room, effectively cutting off any window of opportunity they could have had to leave. Maul accepts his fate at last and takes a seat, but not without letting Savage know full well how bothered he is by being here.

“Good afternoon,” the instructor says. 

It’s Master Qui-Gon Jinn today, to Savage’s quiet delight and relief. He stands in for Master Kenobi now and then, and though they haven’t had a chance to talk beyond a few small exchanges before, Savage noticed the man’s endless patience and gentleness shine through his instructions and pleasant presence. There’s always some conversation or the other going on with Master Jinn around, plenty interesting even without actively participating in it.

_ Thank the Force, _ Savage thinks. Master Kenobi’s wit might be too sharp for Maul to accept it in good nature, so this must be really fortunate.

Master Jinn goes over today’s crochet activities and reveals the many new patterns he has scavenged for the class. There are several complex ones which the most enthusiastic members snatch before anybody has a chance to see them, then Master Jinn hands out a collection of less difficult designs for the rest of them. Savage quietly mourns every week he misses his chance to grab the detailed patterns, but he doesn’t want to butt in over the more active members, so he remains quiet. He is too young a member to deserve such honor yet.

While everybody is busy admiring the new patterns, Savage hands his brother his spare crochet hook (to Maul’s utter dismay) and gives him a pat on the back.

“Brother, I have no idea what to do with this,” Maul hisses back at him. “I thought this was a philosophy class?”

“We do have philosophical debates now and then,” Savage admits.

Maul studies the hook, turning it around in his hand. He points it at Savage menacingly and says, “I could stab someone with this.”

“There must be a dozen ways to effectively incapacitate someone with one, for sure,” a new voice agrees, pleasant and warm and decidedly less scandalized at hearing such threatening words than one would initially expect.

“Master Jinn,” Savage says in greeting. "This is my brother, Maul."

"Welcome! It is always a pleasure to see a new face."

As expected, Maul does not reply in kind. He is, at least, minimally polite and inclines his head somberly. 

Savage counts that as a win.

"Would you like me to show you the basics?" Master Jinn addresses his brother with candor. It seems to reach Maul a little bit, softening the edges of his eternal frown in a way only someone who sees him on a daily basis could tell. A fraction more and Maul would look, dare Savage even consider it, eager to learn.

There is wordless agreement from Maul's side, then Master Jinn promises to return as soon as he gives everybody else proper work to do.

"Thank you for coming today," Savage whispers to his brother after the instructor walks away. Truly, there is little else Savage could say that would really encompass the gratitude and relief he feels inside to see Maul  _ try _ a new hobby, if even only at his repeated request.

"Don't thank me yet," Maul mutters back, but his words don't carry their usual bite.

It doesn't take too long until Master Jinn returns with a pillow of his own. He settles down next to Maul (to the utter delight of a neighbouring lady, who keeps stealing glances at them,) and starts explaining the very first beginner steps to crocheting.

Savage picks out a relatively simple pattern today, something meant to turn into a wrap-around shawl. If it comes out well enough, he'll give it to Miss Ventress the next time they see each other. The thought both warms his heart and sends it beating a little too fast in anxiety—he must do his best, so that it may reflect her beauty and not dampen it.

Still, he is trained in the art of crochet now. Toothsie back at home has several little burrito outfits he practiced on in the past few months. It comes automatically to loop the yarn around and hook it this and that way, be it a simple chain stitch or a more advanced type, so part of him can pay attention to Master Jinn's quiet words.

"Hold it gently," Master Jinn says. "Imagine a cozy winter sweater, soft and made with lazy stitches. Start slowly."

Savage looks at them a few times—the briefest of glances lest Maul see him—and sees the inkling of a chain stitch forming in Maul's hands.

"Well done!" Master Jinn is not affected at all by Maul's lackluster responses. "Here, if we cut the string here, we can tie it off like this."

He takes the hook from his brother's hold and demonstrates the simple knot. After that, he teaches Maul how to link more rows together and how to read a simple pattern.

Savage's quick investigative looks become more and more curious as he notices Maul's compliance. It's not the menacing silence he falls back on when he must remain 'polite' even though he is fuming inside. Rather, Maul seems to be genuinely relaxed (as relaxed as his brother can be, mind,) and he is listening to Master Jinn dutifully, daresay even appearing as though he is enjoying himself.

Master Jinn corrects the way Maul is holding the crochet hook with a gentle touch, bringing the hook parallel to the string.

"Practice this for some time, see how many rows you can reach." Master Jinn stands and dusts off his trousers. "I'll check back on you after I see what everyone else is up to."

As he says that, he leans toward Savage and admires his handiwork. "Well done. The stitches look quite even," he says.

"Thank you, Master Jinn."

The instructor smiles pleasantly at them both, then departs.

Maul instantly looks at Savage (and he at Maul, in turn.) There is a spark in Maul's eyes that Savage hasn't seen since the Fateful 66th Order happened and it makes him giddy in turn.

"This isn't that hard," Maul comments in a low whisper, displaying the little chain he is working on with pride.

"I'm glad," Savage says simply. 

He really is.

At some point, Count Dooku and Mr Windu pull Savage into their conversation. They've migrated around the room, the little trio now sitting around a small tea table, while Maul is in the good hands of Qui-Gon Jinn next to the table laden with stitch patterns and yarns. Savage gives them one final look before he fully focuses on the subject the two men are discussing so ardently.

(Maul is engrossed by the crocheting. Savage couldn't have asked for more.)

"I suppose it's well deserved praise," Mace Windu says when Savage tunes back in. "I've tried several of their pastries and there is little to complain about."

"Indeed." Count Dooku looks down at the dark tea swirling in his teacup. "Truthfully, I've only been there once, but even that visit left quite the impression on me."

Mr Windu notices Savage's inquiring look and explains further: "We are discussing Angel Falls. Have you been to that diner? It's by The Temple."

Ah. A controversial topic, to be sure, when breached around an employee of The Senate.

Without meaning to, Savage's eyes find his brother in the crowd and linger on him briefly.

"I haven't been, but a friend started frequenting it recently. I've heard only good things," he says.

_ Only good things  _ **_from Ventress,_ ** he finishes in the safety of his mind. The diner's name may as well have been dragged through the mud by Chef Palpatine, if the tone he uses whenever he talks about it means anything.

"So have I," Mr Windu says. "It is right across the street from my bakery and I have been keeping an eye on it for a while. Their popularity has been on the rise."

This doesn't surprise Savage and it appears Count Dooku is similarly unshaken.

"But I  _ have _ heard something interesting," Mr Windu continues. He leans over the tea table and beckons them to listen closely. "I have reason to believe one of their chefs hasn't had a speck of formal training in the culinary arts."

Savage does a good job of hiding his surprise, though not entirely. His eyes widen slightly and he exchanges a look with Count Dooku, who seems quite confused on his part.

"Chef Amidala was very lucky to find such a precious gem in the rough," the Count remarks, "if we are thinking of the same person. I find it hard to believe this is the case, however."

"I couldn't believe it myself!" Mr Windu agrees wholeheartedly. "Skywalker does have a lot of skill, but no Master's Degree. Not even a Bachelor's!"

_ No professional training? _ Savage furrows his brows deep in thought. If someone of that caliber can earn Ventress' compliments, it must be quite a talented individual.

"Ah, excuse me, gentlemen. I couldn't help but eavesdrop on your conversation."

Savage turns and sees Mr Kenobi standing behind him, smiling.

"Master Kenobi," the Count acknowledges his presence and at once sets about pouring an extra cup of tea for the man.

"No, no, do not worry yourself." Obi-Wan Kenobi shows them a stack of holobooks and gestures with them toward Master Jinn. "I'm not staying. I only need to drop these off."

Count Dooku lets out a quiet 'Ah' in understanding. "Next time, then."

"Do you perhaps know Chef Skywalker?" Mr Windu asks, watching Mr Kenobi with renewed interest.

"A little bit," Mr Kenobi answers. "That is why I linger now, in fact. I've been to the place a few times. It  _ is _ very charming."

"Good food is good food, no matter the chef's origins," Savage says. 

(He means Skywalker, of course, but a part of him thinks of Maul, a child from the middle of nowhere, picked up by chance by the generous philanthropist Sheev Palpatine, and his heart tightens painfully in his chest. Whatever became of the family they left behind?)

Silence befalls the table in his wake.

A smidge of warmth rises up to his face at once. Has he said something awkward? Even Count Dooku is staring at him with calculating eyes—and  _ that _ isn't a good place to be in.

"Well said," Mr Kenobi says and gives him a pat on the shoulder.

Half an hour later, the Crochet Class participants are mostly packed up and on their way home. A handful of retired politicians are still chatting just outside the door, their strong voices reverberating down the hallway a tad rudely were it not too late for other activities to take place at the Club. Savage listens to their muffled words, not really paying attention to the conversation as much as giving his ears something to focus on while his brother finishes his work.

In a pleasantly surprising twist of events, eight o'clock in the evening finds Maul in a continued state of tranquility. The apathetic, low-energy way he presented himself earlier that day has at some point turned into a more optimistic version of itself, one Savage rarely sees. 

Master Qui-Gon Jinn's endless patience and kindness really does reach even the most closed off of them, he realizes.

Inviting Maul to the Club had started off due to a teasing line from Master Kenobi, but now Savage understands there was more wisdom behind that idea than Master Kenobi let on at first.

Good mood willing, Savage eagerly awaits to turn these Thursdays into precious family-bonding memories. Maul certainly doesn't look as opposed to being here as he was earlier that very same day.

_ Thank the Force for Master Jinn. _

* * *

**Extra:**

In the morning, Master Yoda buys his daily cinnamon roll from Windu's Bakery and savours it on a bench in The Temple. He listens to the birds chirping without worry in the trees and bushes and even scatters a few seeds he keeps for them in a little bag.

Later, after his classes at The Club (hours upon hours of teaching younglings about history and a sprinkle of philosophy,) Master Yoda returns to the same busy street, but this time enters the diner vis-a-vis. Everybody knows him there already—he has been a regular for at least a year and a half now—and he doesn't have to tell them any of his allergies anymore, so thoroughly everything has been discussed again and again.

There is more teaching to be done during the afternoon, though these classes he usually finds much more relaxing. Arts and crafts are best enjoyed after a good meal and he is often in a great mood and full of inspiration when he returns to the Club.

Then, at the end of the day, though not at the end of  _ every _ day—few could afford such luxury—Master Yoda tries out a new dish at The Senate. At least two or three colleagues accompany him each time and they spend their night in deep conversation, socializing both within their circle and making new connections with The Senate's elite clientele.

This is how Master Yoda gets a little taste of everything and keeps a tab on everyone.

(He doesn't meddle!)

(He is merely curious in nature.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While writing this I kept thinking of that video of the very grumpy-looking cat which leans back in their owner's arms and their expression just shifts from angry furball to melted cat in paradise. Strong Maul vibes in regards to receiving affection. Possibly OOC but I don't want to write 100k beforehand to give him a break.


	8. Anakin & the Simple Promises of Here and Now

Autumn settles in fully with heavy rainfalls and rusty leaves littering the streets. Each morning becomes more and more shrouded in darkness as the sun delays its rise and keeps to itself below the horizon. 

At seven am, the wind is bitter and unforgiving, following a night of storm and thunder. It nips at Anakin's face all the way from the bus station to the diner, turning the tip of his nose and his cheeks red. Inside Angel Falls it's pleasantly warm and mostly quiet, with only three people bundled up in coats and scarves waiting in line by the cash register, looking for a dose of sugar before their duty calls them away. 

Anakin himself is sitting at a table near the entrance, scrolling down on his phone absently. The pictures and words go past his screen in a blur; he pauses only to watch silly loth-cat videos when they come up on the newsfeed.

One week and two days ago, one early evening, Anakin was working diligently on a speeder when the jack lost its balance and the vehicle caught his forearm on the way down. It was an unfortunate accident which forced him to take a longer medical leave, but while he couldn't cook or fix things with a couple of broken bones, he sure could help out in other ways.

(At least he could in the first week.)

The Bonteri kid watches Anakin like a hawk from the register. It wasn't as bothersome at first, but now Anakin can feel his eyes burning two holes at the back of his neck and it's becoming hard to focus on the video he is watching on his phone.

"Do you need something?" Anakin asks him, twisting around in the chair to see him better.

"You should be resting."

The audacity of this boy—!

Lux Bonteri keeps going fearlessly: "Manager Amidala said you aren't allowed inside."

"She said that, huh." Anakin would fold his arms if he could, but his right arm is in a cast from the middle of his palm all the way to his elbow. He puts his hands on his hips instead, hoping he looks at least a little bit intimidating. "I am just sitting here."

"You're more tense than a wookie who hasn't had breakfast yet," comments Padmé. She steps into the diner, as if summoned by the simple mention of her name. "It's not even seven yet. What are you doing here?"

Anakin exchanges one more glare with Bonteri before he sighs, shoulders dropping. He hears more than sees Padmé come to his table and he avoids her eyes when she sits down on his right.

"Please, go home and take care until your health improves," she tells him in a much gentler voice than he deserves. 

This isn't the first (or second, or third) day that he bothers them in the morning.

"There must be _something_ left to do," he says. "I could take an inventory of the pantry."

"You did that last week."

"Annual insurance documents, then?"

"Lux handled them two months ago."

"I can go pay the bills!" Anakin exclaims brightly.

Padmé tinkers with her holophone briefly. It lets out a few chimes, then she angles it toward Anakin.

 _Transaction complete,_ it says on the screen.

"Done," Padmé states, superfluously.

Anakin finally meets her challenging eyes with a bleak look of his own.

Padmé nods toward the front door briskly. "Take a walk."

Sighing in defeat, Anakin stands up, grabs his jacket and walks away.

He ends up walking to the park, not quite paying attention to where he's going except to avoid other people (and a lamppost one time.) For a good minute, he keeps to the main alleys, wandering from one end of the park to the other underneath the trees crowned in bronze. 

It's neither the hour nor the weather for promenades, what with most people crowding the public transport landing pads, so he heads to the Temple seeking the privacy of its walls. It spreads pretty far for a monument and has several points of entry guarded by iron fences woven with climbing plants and flowers. Inside, it is a maze of corridors, dead-ends, more fences, and a generous amount of benches and stone tables. During the golden hour, it is often bustling with love-addled youths and children looking for adventure—a far cry from the emptiness Anakin finds here now.

Thin, white stalks line the walls like cracks in the design, adorned with droplets hanging onto the vines delicately. Anakin bends down and disturbs a tiny branch with his hand, but there is no water lingering on the plant. Instead, he finds the droplets are actually night flowers, closed off for the day, with only a hint of their fragrance lingering in the air.

The city bustle fades away completely in this place. It's a blessing and a curse both: one can get away from their worries for a while, but there is always the risk of staying too long, of losing all track of oneself. Even so, the peacefulness doesn't last long for Anakin. Soon, he finds himself worrying about his mother's debt again, and he sees that scoundrel Watto's face in his mind, and hears his voice clearly as he told his mother he's increasing the interest rate again despite their pleas.

Frustration rises up in him like a tide. It engulfs him, waters the roots of his anger until they grow into weeds, expanding against his rib cage and pressing against his lungs. He can't be of any help with his forearm broken. Angel Falls has paid leave, but his unofficial repair shop—not so much. With his mother struggling to find a job, it's weighing down on him even harder.

What are they going to do?

He kicks a rock and watches it ricochet from a wall into a bush. It sends a nearby bird fluttering away in fright.

Anakin sighs.

 _What a mess,_ he thinks bleakly.

He stalks the convoluted paths inside the Temple with renewed vigor, walking past flowers and tables and nooks without a second glance. A few turns take him to a dead end covered in vines and large, red flowers hanging heavily on the branches. Each is like a mass of petals arranged in countless rows against the dark center full of pistils. Unlike the rest of the plants, they seem to be coming down instead, over the wall. Anakin stares at them for a few seconds, taking notice of this particularity, before he plops down on the bench below them.

Resting his head on his left hand, he looks down at the ground absently.

There's a pair of boots right in front of him.

He looks up and finds someone already sitting on the opposite bench, book in one hand and coffee in the other. The stranger is watching him back, mildly surprised, with the to-go cup frozen halfway to his mouth.

"Sorry," Anakin blurts out, embarrassed. He kind of stormed his way here, thinking he was alone.

"That's alright," the other man says.

 _He's not really a stranger though,_ Anakin realizes. It takes him a moment, but the neatly trimmed beard and elegant nose are unmistakable. "I know you! You were with Ventress."

The man’s eyes widen. They’re quite blue, actually. Bluer than Anakin remembers.

“I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.” The man sets his book and drink aside on the bench, then stands, hand extended. "Obi-Wan Kenobi. You must be Chef Skywalker."

"Please, call me Anakin. I'm off duty these days." Anakin lifts his cast instead of shaking Obi-Wan's hand, a smile growing on his face. "Nice to meet you."

Obi-Wan drops his hand awkwardly and sits back down. "What happened?"

"I had an accident at home.” He looks over the few signatures he's amassed on the white fiberglass from his friends. "I've got three weeks left on the bench."

"I am so sorry to hear that! It sounds awful."

"Yep," Anakin agrees. "Are you—" He stops mid-sentence, feeling his face heating up a little bit. Hopefully not a noticeable amount.

The other man leans forward. More light falls on his face, revealing tiny freckles dotting his cheeks like stars. "Am I…?" 

"Uh," Anakin replies eloquently, thoughts flying away from him like birds. The last time (and first) he saw Obi-Wan, he hadn't been too welcoming thanks to Ventress distracting him, and though he noticed how handsome and charming the man was, Anakin didn't have a chance to really _look._ Now he's following the line of freckles with his eyes and feeling his own face warming up more and more as the pause stretches between them.

Obi-Wan watches him curiously. He says nothing, only lifts an eyebrow in question, which doesn't help at all—even this simple gesture is elegant and dignified.

(And it feels like miles away from Anakin's reach.)

"My, uh, friend told me that a regular asked after me." As he speaks, some of his confidence returns. "A _new_ regular," he adds with a small smile.

"And you think that was me?" Obi-Wan asks.

"I hope it was you."

Obi-Wan chuckles as he looks away. The time he spends drinking more coffee and stalling to answer feels unbearably long, the way a single minute can stretch endlessly when you're holding your breath, waiting.

Anakin would be lying if he said he didn't think about this man a few times since they met a month ago. He even braved through the humiliation of asking Ahsoka if Obi-Wan ever came by again and has had to endure her snide remarks ever since.

"I may have wondered what Chef Skywalker was up to," Obi-Wan admits, "and if he were interested in providing the dessert for a party."

"Ah, business, then? Cody didn't mention that." Anakin is _not_ disappointed to hear this. Nu-uh. Special orders are precious. Great for growing the diner's popularity. As such, nothing to be disappointed about.

"Some of it, business, yes—" Obi-Wan pauses to catch Anakin's eyes "—to be discussed over dinner, if you accept."

Anakin maintains his composure. "That does sound acceptable. When exactly is this party taking place?"

"Mid-winter, but we have yet to decide on a date. Here, I have my details on my card."

Obi-Wan hands him a shiny business card with an intricate logo etched onto one of its corners. It has several ways to contact him, including his address at the Dagobah Club. 

Anakin puts it in the pocket of his jacket for safekeeping.

"Thank you. I’ll let you know when I’m free of this—” Anakin waves the cast around despondently “—this… annoyance.” 

As they sit and talk, time passes and brings with it more cold instead of sun. Clouds gather in the sky, grey and foreboding, and the wind that is sweeping them over Coruscant chills Anakin to the bone.

"Perhaps you should go home," Obi-Wan comments. "You don't look very prepared for the weather."

Anakin may or may not be shaking slightly. He grimaces at the idea. He doesn't want to rest at home where he will see his mother toiling away and being unable to contribute in any meaningful way.

Perhaps sensing this conflict, Obi-Wan pats him on the shoulder and says, "Or you could come with me to the Club. We have some open access activities, if you want to see what the place is like."

Even so, dilly-dallying elsewhere is no better.

Obi-Wan moves his hand down Anakin's arm to the crook of his elbow. "It's settled then. Let's go."

"If you insist," Anakin says, relieved to have the choice taken away from him.

"You'll like it."

They cross the Temple at a leisure pace. Obi-Wan doesn't remove his hand and the point of contact keeps Anakin from losing himself in worry again. 

A few scattered puddles hint at the storm last night, but mostly the ground is full of leaves. Anakin steps on a few crunchy ones out of principle (though his face warms up when he remembers he has an audience.)

By the edge of the monument, right past the first couple of walls and iron fences, a stranger calls out Anakin's name.

"Mr Skywalker!" the voice says again, this time much closer to them. A man dressed in a blue peacoat stops by their side. Behind him trails a boy, face marred by a frown so often found on tormented youths.

"Mr Fett, Boba, good morning," Anakin replies.

"I thought I recognized you," says Jango Fett, a small, awkward smile on his face. "And Obi-Wan? What a pleasant surprise! Good morning."

"Good morning," Obi-Wan says. "It's a small world."

Jango Fett inclines his head in agreement. To Anakin, he says, "I'm sorry to hear about your accident. I got your memo—don't worry about the hoverboard. We can wait however long we must."

Boba, the (moral) possessor of the broken hoverboard, doesn't appear too happy to hear that.

"I'm really sorry," Anakin says. He puts his left hand over the cast, perhaps to hide it away from sight a little bit. "I've talked to a friend and I hope we can figure out a way to fix it sooner."

"No rush! Boba's busy with school now anyway—" saying this, Jango Fett casts his son a fond, if a bit reproaching look "—and we don't have time for tomfoolery."

"I'm going to look for worms," Boba mutters and promptly walks away to the nearest garden bed.

Jango Fett sighs tiredly once the kid is out of earshot.

"Is everything alright?" Obi-Wan asks.

"Work is hectic." Jango shrugs. "School is demanding and Boba is entering that phase where he doesn't listen to a word I say, and I _dearly_ miss your meditation class, Obi-Wan. I need some peace in my life."

“I’ll be sure to notify you when the class starts again,” Obi-Wan says apologetically.

“You have a meditation class?” Anakin asks on their way to the Club. 

Buildings pass them by on both sides, imposing and tall and old. At ground level, the windows of clothing stores and jewelry shops have a dull shine to them, reflecting back the clouds overhead. He watches their reflection in the glass as they stick close together, walking briskly down the paved tiles. A precious, fragile sentiment hangs about him—usually, his attempts at flirting don’t go anywhere (and aren’t that good to begin with.)

Obi-Wan is relaxed and chipper, a far cry from Anakin’s still tense shoulders. He nods in reply, though perhaps the topic brings a small damper to his mood and shrinks the smile on his lips.

“I used to, but for the past few months I’ve been doing administrative work instead,” he admits. Some regret bleeds through his words, but he recovers quickly. “Do you have any idea what mindfulness is?”

“Colouring books for adults?” Anakin offers with a huff of laughter.

Obi-Wan laughs as well. "Mindfulness is about focusing on the present and there are many ways to go about it, including colouring.”

“Really? I thought that was a marketing ruse.”

“It depends on your mindset,” Obi-Wan shrugs. “There is more to it than just creating art, but it boils down to a pretty simple concept.”

Anakin looks at him eagerly. “Will you show me?”

“Perhaps.”

Anakin has seen the Dagobah Club plenty of times, but he’s never entered it before. Something about its height and architecture keeps him at an arm’s reach, as if he could not brave this strange new place alone. Many different things happen at this community center, mostly in service of the children’s education and the elderly’s self-fulfilling retirement days. He’s had acquaintances use the rooms here for birthday parties (which he didn’t go to as a child,) or a wedding ceremony one time (which he also missed.)

Now, with Obi-Wan pointing him where this or that door leads to, the place feels familiar. He imagines what it would be like to work here, to pass by such tall, elegant windows every day and consider it the usual. What it would be like to spend his days teaching people… He doesn't have the patience for it, but he entertains the notion for a few minutes. He could teach something he’s good at. Perhaps open people’s eyes to the secrets of everyday life’s droids.

Obi-Wan's office is a corner room with two sets of windows, one opening toward the busy central plaza, while the other oversees a large boulevard, peppered with tall, undulating trees whose branches come very close to the glass on this level. The view outside pales in comparison to the treasures amassed in the room. Shelves upon shelves line the walls, stocked to the brim with books, decorative boxes, trinkets, and little pots bearing minuscule cacti. Two armchairs are angled toward a small, round table, and a desk lies closer to one of the windows, wholly covered in papers and office supplies. Beyond that, some books are out of place on one armchair, as well as a jacket strewn over its backrest.

An electric kettle sits on the table, already plugged in. Obi-Wan dives for it as soon as they enter and fiddles with its buttons, then takes out two mugs from a drawer of the desk.

"Tea?" he asks, redundantly, with the drink basically halfway prepared already.

"Sure," Anakin says absently as he walks to a window. 

People are rushing to their workplaces through the wind; a zabrak opens a glaringly yellow umbrella and unofficially announces the rainfall has begun. Soon, the pitter-patter of the droplets against the windows is covered by the sound of the water close to boiling. Anakin listens to the rain, trying to separate it from the loud, disruptive electronic device.

"Have a seat," Obi-Wan says.

"So…" Anakin begins, once he's swallowed by the plush of the armchair, "how do you know Ventress?"

"We kept meeting by chance." Obi-Wan is looking somewhere in the distance, entertaining a memory or another. He stifles a chuckle. "We have a strange friendship."

Anakin’s ‘chance’ meetings with that woman have never been pleasant to think about. "I see,” he grumbles.

"You sound quite cold. Has she done something to you?" Obi-Wan strokes his beard. "I must admit, I didn’t expect your confrontation at the diner."

"She hurt someone close to me," Anakin replies even more coldly.

The other man nods in understanding. He checks his tea over, swirling it in his cup as he answers in quite a gentle voice: "She keeps everyone quite far away from her. Perhaps she did not mean it, if the person you speak of is the same I am thinking of."

Anakin can't help the bitterness in his words when he speaks next. "And you would know? Are you two so close?"

"Not at all, actually. I merely… guess." Obi-Wan sighs. "That's all I can go on when it comes to her. She _is_ very private, but even I know about Miss Amidala."

Frustrated with the conversation, Anakin busies himself with his teacup for the next few minutes. The tea is still hot, but he bears it and sips it in small increments, if just to keep himself distracted. Is it right that he should hound Ventress at any opportunity, yet sit here and have tea with her friend without regret? But her friend is nothing like her—well, except the handsomeness. Ventress seems to only surround herself with beautiful people.

Obi-Wan is much more restrained and well mannered than her. Their wit is similarly sharp too, but where Ventress cuts deep, Obi-Wan seems to linger on the surface, closer to good-natured fun and teasing.

Obi-Wan breaks the tentative silence with a shyly spoken question. "How did you start cooking?"

 _I had no choice, when my mother was slaving away with two jobs to keep a roof over our heads,_ he thinks, but doesn't say.

Instead, he pictures a younger Padmé, when she spent a summer at her relative's vacation house on Tatooine and they became friends.

"I met my manager—Miss Amidala—some fifteen years ago, right before she was admitted to the Culinary Academy," Anakin explains wistfully. 

The sun was scorching that summer, right from the start, and the heat didn't let up until late into fall. Padmé taught him how to use a handful of spices and how to use a knife properly. It charmed his mother when he put his newly found knowledge into practice and that wonder she had on her face when she ate baked vegetables, Anakin will never forget. The simple, raw pleasure of eating a good meal—a meal _he_ made with his own hands? It charmed him in turn, to be able to bring this comfort to her.

"She guided me, showed me the starting point, and then I experimented on my own."

"Did you keep in touch over the years?"

"Yeah!" If there is one thing from his teenage years he remembers fondly, it is the hours he spent poring over Padmé's notes and the joy he brought to his mom whenever he managed to turn their basic pantry stock into delicious dishes. "She would send me some of her lectures in secret and encourage me to get better. We didn't always have the proper ingredients at home, but this is how I started getting creative about it."

"How fortunate that the two of you are working together now," Obi-Wan comments.

"Yes _and_ I have every single spice, herb, and obscure alien vegetable at my disposal," Anakin finishes, smiling proudly.

Their conversation moves on to other topics, touching upon the latest movies, some music, a celebrity scandal, a _political_ scandal, until it casually circles back to their jobs. This time Anakin is the one grilling for information as he observes the books and trinkets on Obi-Wan's shelves.

“So, mindfulness. What’s that all about?”

Obi-Wan stands up from the table and joins him by the bookshelf. He looks over his books while contemplating his answer, trailing a finger over their spine.

“Being aware of oneself, body and mind,” he says.

“Uhh, isn’t that just being awake?” Anakin follows Obi-Wan’s movements as he adjusts the position of a few cacti pots. “I’m awake right now and I’m thinking _thoughts_. A lot of them.”

 _For example,_ he thinks, _you have really nice hands._

“Mindfulness is _intentional,”_ Obi-Wan stresses. “With practice, it can help you manage stress better, understand yourself, and improve your quality of sleep, among other things.”

“I suppose you cannot tell me its secret just like that,” Anakin says.

“Actually—” Obi-Wan pulls out a thick folder from the shelf, opens it and takes out a few pieces of paper, which he hands to Anakin. “I can show you, if you’re up to it.”

Intrigued by how his morning is turning out, Anakin nods and follows Obi-Wan to his desk. He waits patiently while the man makes some space on it, gathering the documents into a pile and placing the scattered pens back into the metal container.

“Sit. I’ll bring you some pencils.”

Anakin sits.

The pages Obi-Wan took out from the folder are not as blank as they originally seemed. Each of them has detailed line-art printed on its surface, depicting various things, both real and abstract shapes. The topmost piece is a repetitive pattern made out of a handful of leaves, some bubbles and a round, intricate beetle. At a glance, it’s nice, but when Anakin realizes it’s meant to be colored in detail, he balks at the amount of lines criss-crossing over each other.

Obi-Wan returns with an expensive-looking metal case full of colored pencils. He pats Anakin on the back, then selects a different page from the stack and places it in front of Anakin. This one seems more accessible to his current health state, with many round fruits scattered on top of a tray, easy to colour in.

“Pay attention to the act of colouring. All sorts of thoughts will come to your mind. Notice them, but don’t follow them,” Obi-Wan instructs. He sounds firmer—perhaps this is his teaching voice. “You’re here and now.”

Anakin listens closely. For the next half an hour, it turns out it is surprisingly easy to sit still and try to apply this technique. If he thinks about it an extra minute, he knows he just wants to impress Obi-Wan a little bit, but regardless of his feelings on the matter, he only zones out for _half_ of it. Thus, it is a raging success.

  
  


Ahsoka comes by that weekend, dressed for work in a shirt with a faded Mother Talzin & the Nightsisters logo, and a pair of patched jeans full of stains and pen scribblings. She shrugs off her outer coat, drops her stuff in the foyer, and gets going right away.

With considerably less energy, Anakin joins her in the garage, himself in the comfiest house-wear he owns. His cast hangs heavily at his side—not physically, no, but he is hyper aware of it and his mind is anchored to it in a way that keeps him from enjoying Ahsoka's small talk.

She's agreed to (try to) fix Boba Fett's hoverboard under Anakin's supervision.

"It's not that hard!" she exclaims when they are midway done with the circuitry. "A friend tried to repair a similar model and didn't succeed."

"They didn't have my guidance, obviously," Anakin remarks.

"Obviously." Ahsoka rolls her eyes, but doesn't hide the smile on her face.

It takes three hours to get it working, but there is more to be tinkered with before it can be returned to its owner. If it were up to him and he were fully functional, he would be done by nightfall, but he is at the mercy of Ahsoka's student schedule.

(This is not to say Anakin is not eternally grateful to have her help.)

"You haven't come by the last three days," she muses, an off-handed remark which carries a bit more depth to it than the tone it was delivered in.

"I thought I wasn't allowed in," Anakin says, just to be insufferable.

Ahsoka doesn't take the bait. Instead, she turns to him with genuine concern colouring her face. 

"Are you okay?" She asks this with such candor that Anakin is caught by the urge to run away. Fast.

He doesn't, not quite, but his body tenses up and he knows that when he hesitates to answer he's revealing more than he wants. Ahsoka is clever, she picks up on cues like these. He can only hope she doesn't turn to interrogate him fully.

"I went to a community center," he tells her before more questions can arise. "Coloured in a book. I'll be a master artist with my left hand in no time."

"That's… The strangest lie I've ever heard. Unless it's not a lie." She squints at him, full of disbelief. "No, I don't believe you."

Anakin laughs. If anyone told him he'd be doing this (to be mindful!), he'd think they were lying too.

"Believe whatever you want."

"Huh."

  
  


One day next week, Anakin finds himself working on colouring the detailed lineart of a dragon. It's past two at night and he feels tired enough for it, but his thoughts won't let him rest his eyes for more than a couple of minutes at a time. The dragon is mostly done by now, after several hours of painstaking work and learning how to use his left hand for precision tasks.

The neighbours' guardian animals are making a ruckus, perhaps spurred on by a stray cat. The noise is chained from yard to yard, getting farther away as the disturbance runs down the street in the dark. It takes a good minute for things to quiet down, time during which Anakin drifts away, still filling in the lineart on autopilot.

The electricity bill isn't paid yet, but the money is set aside for it. Tomorrow he could finalize that payment, then maybe even go to the holonet provider to rework their data plan and settle both problems. The show his mother watches doesn't need much and he isn't really using it enough to warrant the bigger investment.

 _Red scales on the back of the dragon's head,_ he reminds himself, pressing the pencil down with more strength.

If he's lucky and they can change it on the fly, he’ll add the saved up money to the funds for the gas fees. With the summertime gas bill larger than expected and the weather outside heading into winter mercilessly, the fall expenses won't be pretty at all.

_Orange here, over the nose._

He fills the scales in a mix of the two colours, focusing only on this present task like Obi-Wan instructed him. The shades are quite close to each other; overall, it makes for an interesting mosaic next to the couple of scales he's done in yellow and dark brown earlier. This dragon is a creature of fire and earth.

It's cold in his room—bearably cold, still, but he dreads they might have to turn the heating on earlier than usual if it doesn't let up.

_Another red scale._

He feels the air passing through his nostrils and pays attention to each breath.

The dragon is fierce and solid and warm.

Before he becomes too tired to think, he takes a picture of his little artistic project and sends it to Obi-Wan, hour be damned.

'Thank you,' he types underneath.

Sleep is easier after that.

  
  


* * *

**Extra:**

Artoo makes a perimeter sweep at the first hour of the morning, as is its routine. Nothing unusual happened during the night, except for a loth-cat sprinting across the garage roof and down into the street, but even that Artoo deems way too low on the priority list to be mentioned.

Satisfied to see everything in perfect place, it falls in standby mode for another couple of hours, until the Maker and the Maker's maker start their day.

Time passes in a blink when you're a droid, especially when your system is busy scanning for threats in the background. Soon, breakfast will be served and then Artoo will remind the Maker he has to stay away from the garage by non-aggressively bumping into his legs and body-blocking the entrance.

For now, Artoo dwells in a corner of the kitchen and stares at the two humans.

"I'm starting work tomorrow," she says casually, though Artoo detects a hint of hesitation in her voice.

"Really?!" The Maker cheers. He stands up from the table and steps around it to her side and gives her a one-armed hug. "Fantastic news! Where?"

She hesitates deeply now. Her eyes are downcast and her hands are clenched into fists at her sides.

"Mom?"

"At The Senate…" she replies then quietly.

> _Senate: n. an assembly or council of citizens having the highest deliberative functions in a government, especially a legislative assembly of a state or nation._

Also, Artoo knows _The_ Senate is:

> _“Rich-bastard central,”_ (Anakin Skywalker, …) _“They sell_ one _rice serving for_ **_how_ ** _much?”_ (Shmi Skywalker, …) and _“Overpriced fondant cakes for elitists,”_ (Ahsoka Tano-Koon, …)

The Maker's face falls upon hearing this name, but he recovers very fast. "That's—Well, they're professionals."

"I know you aren't on the best of terms, but…"

"It's alright, mom. It's a good job and if we can take their money…!"

The two laugh brightly, both of their faces split into wide smiles. The tension in the room lifts.

Artoo observes all this and adds it to its ongoing project, _understanding_the_maker.sql._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got the outline down for the rest of the chapters, but I'm in the middle of writing a Mando longfic and I will be focusing on that project while the excitement for it persists. This story's taking a bit of a back seat until January.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! (●ˇ∀ˇ●)


End file.
